[BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 


James  J.  McBride 

PRESENTED  BY 

Margaret  McBride 


n 

/  ' 


POEMS  OF  S.  H.  M.  BYERS 


Frontispiece 


' 


POEMS  OF  S.  H.  M.  BYERS 

Selected 


Including  also 

"THE  HAPPY  ISLES" 

"THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA' 

And  other  Poems 


New  York 

The  Neale  Publishing  Company 
1914 


Copyright,  1914.  by 
The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


PS 

I2 

399AI7 


TO  MARGARET 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Alfred  Tennyson    174 

At  Seventy-five  211 

Auf    Wiedersehen! 70 

Baby   Helene 86 

Ballad  of  Columbus,  The 27 

Ballad   of   Quintin   Massy,   The 77 

Beautiful  Death    144 

Beauty  Rose,  The 136 

Beethoven's  Symphony 168 

Bells  of  San  Diego,  The 164 

Beyond  the  Gates 215 

Call  of  the  Woods,  The 199 

Castles  in  Spain 182 

Crowing  of  the  Cock,  The 180 

Dawning  of  the  Day,  The 207 

Daybreak  at  Appomattox 146 

Dwarf   of   Mytilene,   The 90 

Fight  off  Flamboro  Head,  The 213 

First   Kiss,  The 42 

Footstep  in  the  Snow,  The 176 

From  the  Island  of  Madeira 192 

Guard  on  the  Volga,  The 65 

Happy  Isles,  The 11 

Her  Presence  193 

If  You  Want  a  Kiss,  Why  Take  It 115 

I  Hear  the  Sea 137 

In  Burns'  Land 178 

In  Libby , 130 


PAGE 

In  Purple  Seas 202 

Invisible  Nun,  The 209 

Jamie's  Coming  O'er  the  Moor 119 

La  Marguerite   204 

Larks  of  Waveland,  The 149 

Larry    and    1 197 

Look    Up    63 

Love  and  September 101 

Maid  and  Butterfly 121 

Margery  Brown 54 

Marriage  of  the  Flowers,  The 107 

Mowing,  The   117 

My  Violet 131 

My  White  Rose  and  Red 105 

News  at  the  White  House 56 

Ode  to  Emerson 184 

O,  How  Shall  I  Sing  to  My  Fair  One 122 

Oliver  Wendell   Holmes 142 

O  Maiden,  So  Slender  and  Fair 127 

On   a    Fair   Dead   Girl 103 

On  Passing  San  Remo 195 

On  the  Beach 188 

Pharaoh   in   Egypt 186 

Philip    44 

Pioneers,  The    94 

Regret    140 

Reveille,  The   61 

Room   for  the   Angels 113 

Rose  and  Ashes 162 

Sea,  The 68 

Sea   Anemone,  The 167 

Serenade    172 


PAGE 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea 24 

Song  of  Iowa,  The 138 

Sonnet   of   Love,   A 135 

There  is  a  Maiden  Whom  I  Know 133 

To  the  Author  of  "America" 190 

Tramp  of  Sherman's  Army,  The 72 

Turtle    Dove,    The 196 

Under    the    Rose 124 

Vicksburg: 

Part     I:  Running  the  Batteries 151 

Part  II:  Where  Are  They  All  To-day?....  156 

When  Leonora  Plays 201 

THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


PART    I. 

PAGE 

Prelude    9 

Soldiers'  Song  21 

Doris  29 

Foragers'  Song  35 

With    Corse    at    Allatoona 42 

The  Ballad  of  John  Brown 46 

Last  Night  I  heard  the  Whippoorwill 56 

PART    II. 

Reveille    59 

PART    III. 

Ballad 71 

At  the   River 77 

Midnight  in  Camp 85 

The   Raid  of  the  Andrews  Men 88 

War  Violets   103 

Almost  Up    107 

Ponce  de  Leon 109 

Kilpatrick's  Cavalry  Charge 118 

Song  of  Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea 133 

Adieu    ,                                    142 


SAID  A  SONG-BIRD. 

SAID  a  song-bird  cnce  to  me, 

"  Listen  to  my  roundelay  ; 
Man  nor  maid  shall  hinder  me — 

I  shall  sing  my  song  to-day." 

Said  a  song-bird  once  to  me, 
"  I  have  sung  my  song  to-day ; 

Hadst  thou  listened,  it  may  be 

I  have  said  what  thou  wouldst  say/' 

I  have  only  said  and  sung 

Things  that  in  thy  heart  have  dwelt ; 
Though  thy  harp  was  never  strung, 

Thou  hast  felt  what  I  have  felt. 

All  are  poets  in  their  time — 
God's  whole  world  is  harmony : 

Lo !  in  one  majestic  rhyme 
Sweep  the  rivers  to  the  sea. 


SAID  A  SONG-BIRD. 

All  are  poets  when  they  feel 
Nature's  rhythms  rise  and  fall ; 

Nature's  heart-beats  are  the  seal 
Maketh  poets  of  us  all. 

If,  perchance,  these  songs  of  mine 
Waken  some  responsive  strain, 

Silent  though  the  countersign, 
I  shall  not  have  sung  in  vain 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  in  beauteous  Paradise, 
Two  angels  wandered  at  the  even-tide, 
Beneath  a  splendor  of  celestial  skies, 
With  banks  of  violets  on  every  side. 
And  to  their  ears,  came  ever  far  and  wide, 
Soft  notes  of  flutes,  voluptuous  melodies, 
That  mortals,  hearing,  had  in  rapture  died. 
So  soft  they  came,  the  murmuring  of  the  seas 
Was  stilled,  to  listen  to  their  ecstasies. 

And  while  they  wandered,  all  their  senses 

filled 

With  the  sweet  thought  to  be  forever  young, 
All  things  a  joy,  and  every  longing  stilled, 
With  not  a  heart  by  any  sorrow  wrung, 
And  life  a  song  to  be  forever  sung,  — 
A  thought  came  o'er  them  like  a  sacred  spell, 
Of  loved  and  left,  far  other  scenes  among, 


12  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

Where  no  dear  heart  might  ever  go,  to  tell 
How  sweet  is  death,  and  how  all  things  are 
well. 

Then  one  did  ask  what  loveliest  thing  there 

was, 

That  was  most  fair  of  anything  on  earth, 
Of  lovely  flower,  or  eglantine,  or  rose, 
Or  tree,  or  thing  of  most  surpassing  worth, 
And  beauteous  even  from  its  very  birth,  — 
Be  it  of  groves,  or  seas,  of  human  kind,  or 

skies, 

Or  songs  of  winds,  of  sadness,  or  of  mirth, — 
What  loveliest  thing  of  all  that  ever  dies, 
Were  fittest  first  to  be  in  Paradise. 

One  said  a  nightingale,  and  one  the  gleam 
Of  summer  sunset  by  some  constant  sea,  — 
And  one,  sweet  apple-blooms  that  fall  and 

seem 

Wind-kissed,  and  lulled  into  an  ecstasy 
Of  odorous  death,  if  such  a  thing  there  be. 
And  others  said,  for  many  hastened  near, 
The  loveliest  thing  in  all  the  world  to  see, 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES.  1 3 

Surpassing  all,  to  heaven  and  earth  most  dear, 
By  angels  welcomed,  is  a  sorrowing  tear. 

One  said  the  fragrance  of  a  summer  rose, 
And  one  the  melody  of  flutes  at  eve, 
Or  else  the  music  of  a  brook  that  flows, 
Murmuring    farewell,  and   yet    doth    never 

leave,  — 

And  some  said  moonlight  nights  that  wea',  „ 
In  every  soul  sweet  phantasies  so  deep 
That  mortals  may  of  immortality  conceive, 
Nor  longer  wish  their  little  lives  to  keep 
From  that  sweet  death  which  some  of  them 

call  sleep. 

But  one  there  came,  of  others  all  the  first, 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  a  little  child, 
And  quick  there  seemed  a  radiance  to  burst 
About  his  face,  ineffable  and  mild. 
"  This  is  the  loveliest,"  he  said,  and  smiled. 
"  Surpassing  this,  or  lovelier,  there  is  none,  — 
Rose-leaf  of  beauty,  mortal  undefiled. 
The  pearly  gates  no  soul  hath  ever  won, 
That  was  not  like  unto  this  little  one." 


14  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

Then  children  came,  and  laid  sweet  baskets 

down, 
Rose-leaf  and  violet,  and  every   flower   of 

worth, 
And  odorous  herbs,  and  many  a  wreath  and 

crown, 
While  in  their  midst  stood  one   of  mortal 

birth, 

Herself  more  fair  than  any  flower  of  earth. 
Oh  !  beauteous  one,  —  oh  !  face  more  perfect 

grown, 
Though  all  unchanged,  more  beautiful  thou 

art,  — 

E'en  in  thy  angelhood,  we  still  had  known 
Our  heart-sweet  lost  —  our  loved,  our  very 

own. 

Was  it  a  vision  that  I  saw  her  there, 
Her  face  all  gleaming  in  the  light  of  His, 
The  sunlight   shining   on  her  sweet,  brown 

hair, 

That  ever  had  been  my  delight  to  kiss, 
In  the  old  days,  when  seeing  her  was  bliss  ? 
It  must  have  been — and  if  such  things  there 

be. 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES.  15 

In  fleeting  visions  of  an  hour  like  this, 
What  an  Elysium  the  soul  must  see 
In  the  sweet  joys  of  an  eternity  ! 

'T  is  but  a  year  —  but  little  more,  since  she 
And  I  were  laughing  by  this  beauteous  lake; 
There  is  the  path,  and  there  the  little  tree 
I  used  to  bend  close  to  the  ground,  and  make 
A  springing  seat  —  't  was  easy  for  her  sake. 
There,  too,  the  grove,  of  Nidelbad  the  pearl, 
The  beechen  trees  no  winds  could  ever  break, 
The  cedars,  bending  like  some  plumed  earl 
To  her  I  loved,  the  little,  laughing  girl. 

There  are  the  Alps  —  there  they  will  ever 

be, — 
A  thousand  years  will   make  no  change  in 

them, 

Though  rivers  fail,  and  all  the  mighty  sea, 
Still  they  will  wear  their  gracious  diadem, 
Storm  and  the  clouds  their  snowy  mantles 

hem, 
And  they  will  shine  as  they  have  shone  of 

old  — 


16  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

Their  tops  aflame,  as  on  some  evening,  when 
We  watched  the  sun  their  palaces  unfold,  — 
The  sapphire  roofs  —  the  colonnades  of  gold. 

And  Zurich  lake  !  thy  waters  ever  will 
Be  dearer  far  than  other  scenes  to  me, 
For  I  have  wandered  by  thy  shores  until 
My  very  being  seemed  akin  to  thee. 
Each   bank   I   knew,  and   every  brook   and 

tree, 

Each  vine-clad  hill,  and  every  hamlet  fair, 
And  more  I  loved  thee  every  day,  that  she 
Was  born  to  us  amid  a  scene  so  rare,  — 
My  heart  will  be  forever  turning  there. 

Forever  turning  to  that  beauteous  scene, 
Where  she  and  I,  the  happy  years  agone, 
Looked  on  the  hills  and  the  blue  lake  be 
tween, 

The  blushing  mountains  in  the  dim  beyond, 
The  ice-built  palaces,  and  rocks  whereon 
A  thousand  years  the  frost-king  travelleth, 
Where  the  red  sun,  at  evening  and  at  dawn, 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES.  17 

Spreads  all  in  gold,  as  with  a  fairy's  breath. 
We  looked  and  dreamed,  but  never  dreamed 
of  death. 

And  it  is  done !    One  morn,  the  little  bird 

That  waited  ever  at  her  window-pane 

For   some   dear   crumb,  or  for  some    dearer 

word, 
Plumed  its  sweet  breast,  and  waited  there  in 

vain. 
Sweet   heart !    dear   soul !    she    without   any 

stain, 

Too  pure  for  earth,  born  of  far  fairer  skies, 
Thoughtless  of  death,  of  darkness,  or  of  pain, 
Looking  on  us  as  if  with  other  eyes, 
Let  go  our  hands  and  passed  to  Paradise. 

With  gentle  hands,  and  gentle  prayers,  we 

laid 

Her  body  where  the  violets  do  blow ; 
And  if  sometimes  they  should  be  thought  to 

fade, 

With  our  warm  tears  we  '11  water  them,  and  so 
For  love  of  her,  they  will  forever  grow. 


18  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

And  many  days,  with  broken  hearts,  we  said, 
"  Could  one  return,  or  could  we  only  know 
She  liveth  yet,  whom  we  have  thus  called 

dead, 
Our  souls  in  this  might  still  be  comforted." 

And  days  and  nights,  we  waited  for  a  sign, 
Praying  and  hoping  she  might  linger  there, 
That  word  or  look  might  lessen  death's  re 
pine, 

One  single  word  might  lighten  our  despair  — 
Might  make  the  yoke  more  possible  to  bear. 
We   sought  of  silence  —  there  was    answer 

none, 
We  sought  of  moonlight,  and  of  earth  and 

air, — 

There  was  no  answer.  Would  she  never  come 
One  moment  back,  and  strike  all  doubting 
dumb  ? 

And  longing  thus,  as  once  I  wept  alone, 
With  heart  bowed  down,  and   face  all  wet 

with  tears, 
I  felt  her  presence  —  felt  my  very  own,  — 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES.  19 

Ana  in  that  moment  was  the  bliss  of  years. 
Gone  were  my  doubts,  and  gone  were  all  my 

fears. 

No  dream  was  it  —  no  phantasy  could  be 
So  like  to  her  —  the  very  thought  endean 
It  was  no  dream,  that  vision  sweet  —  I  see 
Her  dear  form  yet,  and  feel  her  kissing  me. 

One  moment  only,  and  one  sweet  embrace  — 
I  felt  her  warm  arms  resting  on  iny  breast  — 
Her.  soft,  warm  cheek  I  felt  against  my  face. 
A  thousand  times  I  'd  put  that  head  to  rest, 
Those  little  hands  a  thousand  times  caressed. 
Dear  eyes,  sweet  eyes !  I  know  their  tender 

gleam, 
How  oft  their  look  some  sorrowing  heart  hath 

blessed  — 

Dearer  this  night,  than  they  did  ever  seem, 
Dear  one  I  love,  I  know  it  was  no  dream. 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  but  that  moment  was 
Rich  in  significance  of  things  that  are  . 
As  some  faint  light  behind  the  hill-top  shows 
The  coming  moon  and  her  attendant  star, 


20  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

So  with  new  eyes  I  saw,  and  from  afar 
Heard  sweetest  tones,  and  in  the  rosy  West 
Where  they  had  left  the  golden  gates  ajar, 
That  she  might  come  to  give  my  spirit  rest, 
I  looked  and  saw  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

Or  dream,  or  waking,  I  may  never  know, 
Alike  the  joy,  no  words  may  ever  tell,  — 
I  saw  the  isles  where  roses  ever  blow, 
I    saw   the    shores   where   bright   seas   eve 

swell  — 

It  was  the  land  where  the  blest  spirits  dwell. 
I  saw  fair  barks,  by  angels  piloted 
O'er  roseate  seas  that  only  rose  and  fell 
To  notes  of  flutes,  that  thus  were  hallowed, 
While  silver  moons  shed  soft  light  overhead. 

I  saw  the  gardens  of  the  happy  Blest,  — 
The  lotus-blooms,  and  golden  asphodel, 
And    flowering    shrubs    angelic   hands   had 

dressed, 

Red-berried  ash,  and  the  sweet  mountain  bell. 
And  thornless  rose  that  doth  forever  smell, 
And  lilies  fair,  and  waters  all  in  tune 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES,  21 

With  odorous  winds  that  came  like  fairy  spell 
Out  of  the  night,  to  cool  the  parched  noon, 
And  make  the  year  a  never-ending  June. 

I  saw  the  fields  that  are  forever  green, 
And  purple  hills  that  melt  into  the  sea, 
The  thousand    brooks   that   sing   their  way 

between, 

One  and  a  part  of  His  great  minstrelsy. 
Not  far  away  that  happy  sea  may  be, 
Not  far  those  sails  by  rapturous  breezes  bent, 
With  mortal  eyes,  at  times,  we  almost  see, 
So  near  they  are  to  our  own  firmament  — 
The  Blessed  Isles,  where  all  men  are  content. 

Gone  is  the  vision  of  that  blessed  hour, 
Like  to  some  dream  that  with  the  morn  is 

flown. 

I  saw  the  Isles,  and  every  tree  and  flower 
Melt  and  grow  dim,  as  when  a  cloud  is  blown 
Across  a  moon  that  had  that  moment  shone. 
But  as  that  moon  and  all  her  star-lit  train, 
Will  still  shine  on,  when  the  dark  cloud  is 

gone, 


22  THE  HAPPY  ISLES. 

So  will  the  clouds  that  hide  ray  vision  wane, 
And  I  shall  see  the  Blessed  Isles  again. 

Shall  ever  think  how  very  thin  the  veil 
That  floats  at  times  betwixt  myself  and  her, 
Like  mist  of  morn,  or  like  some  dewy  sail,  — 
Ethereal  cloud  —  so  vapor-like,  as  't  were 
A  touch  of  wind,  a  gentle  breath,  might  stir 
Its  shining  folds  —  and  I  again  should  see, 
Spread  out  like  gold,  as  in  my  vision  fair, 
The  Happy  Isles,  the  far-off  shining  sea, 
And  her  I  loved,  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

So  I  shall  walk  as  now  the  earth  along, 
Dearer  to  me  for  one  that  has  been  here, 
Nor  shall  the  way  seem  very  dark  or  long 
To  those  Blest  Isles  whose  confines  do  ap 
pear. 

And  if,  sometimes,  in  fancy  I  should  hear 
A  dear,  soft  voice,  or  some  light  footstep's 

tread, 

I  shall  be  sure  that  she  is  very  near, 
And,  thinking  so,  be  gently  comforted, 
And  live  and  love,  as  by  her  spirit  led. 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES.  23 

And  many  times  my  hand  in  hers  will  be, 
And  we  will  walk  by  pleasant  ways  alone, 
And  I  shall  look  into  her  face,  and  see 
The  dearest  eyes  that  ever  yet  have  shone  — 
And    cheeks    more    sweet    than   any   roses 

blown. 

And  when,  sometimes,  light  song  and  pleas 
antry 

Fill  every  heart  but  mine,  to  silence  grown, 
They  will  not  know  that,  at  that  moment,  she 
Sits  by  my  side  and  keeps  me  company. 


SHERMAN'S   MARCH   TO   THE   SEA. 

OUR  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mount 
ains, 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
While  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning, 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe  ; 
When  a  rider  came  out  from  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready ! 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea ! " 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men ; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And   that   blessings   from  Northland  would 
greet  us, 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO   THE  SEA.      25 

Then  forward,  boys  !  forward  to  battle  ! 

We  marched  on  our  perilous  way, 
And  we  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaea  - 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day ! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free ; 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standards 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 


Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  oi  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  rebel  flag  falls. 
Yet  we  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  sleep  by  each  river  and  tree, 
But  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel, 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 


O  !  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 
That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 

When  Sherman  said,  "  Boys,  you  are  weary ; 
To-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours." 


26        SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Then  sang  we  a  song  for  our  chieftain. 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter, 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

IT  was  fourteen  hundred  and  ninety-two, 

The  close  of  the  New  Year's  day, 
When  the  armies  of  Catholic  Ferdinand, 
The  flower  of  all  the  Spanish  land, 
At  the  siege  of  Granada  lay. 

Ten  thousand  foot  and  ten  thousand  horse 

And  ten  thousand  men  with  bows 
Were  on  the  left,  and  as  many  more 
Had  stormed  close  up  to  the  city's  door, 
Where  the  Darro  Kiver  flows. 

And  the  king  held  levee,  for  on  that  day 

Great  news  had  come  to  court — 
How  on  the  morrow  the  town  would  yield, 
And  the  flag  of  Spain,  with  the  yellow  field, 
Would  float  from  the  Moorish  fort. 

There  were  princely  nobles  and  high  grandees 
That  night  in  the  royal  tent ; 

27 


28  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

And  the  beautiful  queen  with  the  golden  hair 
And  shining  armor  and  sword  was  there — 
On  the  king's  right  arm  she  leant. 

It  was  nine,  and  the  old  Alhambra  bells 

Tolled  out  on  the  moonlit  air ; 
And  over  the  battlements  far  there  came 
The  murmuring  sound  of  Allah's  name, 

And  the  Moorish  troops  at  prayer. 

"  Hark !"    said   the   king,  as  he  heard  the 
sound, 

"  Hark,  hark  !  to  yon  bell's  refrain — 
Five  hundred  years  it  has  called  the  Moor ; 
This  night,  and  'twill  call  him  nevermore— 

To-morrow  'twill  ring  for  Spain !" 

Then  spake  a  guest  at  the  king's  right  hand  : 

"  To-morrow  the  end  will  be  ; 
Hast  thou  not  said,  when  the  war  is  done 
And  the  Christ  flag  floats  o'er  the  Moslem 
one, 

Thou  wouldst  keep  thy  promise  to  me  ? 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS.  &* 

"  Thou  wouldst  give  ine  ships,  and  wouldst 
give  me  men 

AYho  would  dare  to  follow  me  ? 
Help  thou  this  night  with  thy  royal  hand, 
And  I'll  make  thee  king  of  a  new-found  land 

And  king  of  a  new-found  sea. 

"  For  the  world  is  round,  and  a  ship  may  sail 

Straight  on  with  the  setting  sun, 
Beyond  Atlantis  a  thousand  miles, 
Beyond  the  peaks  of  the  golden  isles, 
To  the  Ophir  of  Solomon. 

'  So  I'll  find  new  roads  to  the  golden  isles, 

To  the  gardens  that  bloom  alway, 
To  the  treasure-quarries  of  Ispahan, 
The  sunlit  hills  of  the  mighty  Khan, 
And  the  wonders  of  far  Cathay. 

"  And  gold  I'll  bring  from  the  islands  fair, 

And  riches  of  palm  and  fir 
Thou  shalt  have,  my  king ;  and  the  lords  of 

Spain 
Shall  march  with  the  Christ  flag  once  again, 

And  rescue  the  Sepulchre." 


30  THE  BALLAD   OF  COLUMBUS. 

But  the   nobles    smiled   and   the   prelates 
sneered, 

With  many  a  scornful  fling  ; 
"  Had  not  the  wisest  already  said 
It  was  but  the  scheme  of  an  empty  head, 

And  no  fit  thing  for  a  king  ? 

"  And  were  it  true  that  the  world  is  round, 

And  not  like  an  endless  plain, 
Were  our  good  king's  vessels  the  seas  to  ride 
Adown  the  slope  of  the  world's  great  side, 

How  would  they  get  up  again  ? 

vAnd  the  land  of  the  fabled  antipodes 

Was  a  wonderful  land  to  see, 
Where  people  stand  with  their  heads  on  the 

ground, 
And  their  feet  in  the  air,  while  the  world 

spins  round  " — 
And  they  all  laughed  merrily. 

But  the  king  laughed  not,  though  he  scarce 

believed 
The  things  that  his  ears  had  heard : 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS.  31 

And  he  thought  full  long  of  the  promise  fair, 
And  he  knew  that  the  day  and  the  hour  were 

there, 
If  a  king  were  to  keep  his  word. 

So  he  said,  "  For  a  while,  for  a  little  while, 

Let  it  bide,  for  the  cost  is  great ; " 
But  the  guest  replied  :  "Nay,  seven  years 
I  have  waited  on  with  my  hopes  and  fears  ; 
And  soon  it  will  be  too  late." 

Then  spake  the  queen,  "  Be  it  done  for  me. 

Here  are  jewels  for  woe  or  weal ; " 
And  she  took  the  gems  from  her  shining  hair, 
And  the  priceless  pearls  she  was  wont  to 

wear, 

And  she  said,  "  For  my  own  Castile." 
*****         *         * 
There  were  three  ships  sailing  from  Palos 

town, 

Ere  the  noon  of  a  summer's  day, 
And  the  people  looked  at  the  ships  and  said, 
"  God  pity  their  souls,  for  they  all  are  dead  ;" 
But  the  ships  went  down  the  bay. 


32  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

And  an  east  wind  blew,  and  the  convent  bella 

Hang  out  in  sweet  accord, 
And  the  master  stood  on  the  deck  and  cried, 
"  We  sail  in  the  name  of  the  Crucified, 

With  the  flag  of  Christ  our  Lord  !" 

They  were  ten  days  out  when  a  storm  wind 
blew — 

Ten  days  from  the  coast  of  Spain — 
And  the  sailors  shrived  each  other  and  said, 
"  God  help  us  now,  or  we  all  are  dead ! 

We  shall  never  see  land  again." 

They  were  twelve  days  out  when  an  ocean 
rock 

Burst  forth  in  a  sea  of  fire, 
As  if  each  peak  and  each  lava  cliff 
Of  the  red-hot  sides  of  Teneriffe, 

Were  a  sea-king's  funeral  pyre. 

And  the  sailors  crossed  themselves  and  said, 

"  Alas,  for  the  day  we  swore 
To  follow  a  reckless  adventurer — 
Though  it  be  at  last  to  the  Sepulchre — 

In  search  of  an  unknown  shore." 


THE  BALLAD   OF  COLUMBUS.  33 

And  they  spoke  of  the  terror  that  lay  be 
tween, 

Of  the  hurricanes  born  of  hell, 
Of  the  sunless  seas  that  forever  roar, 
Where  the  moon  had  perished  long  years 

before, 
When  an  evil  spirit  fell. 

And  ever  the  winds  blew  west,  blew  west, 

And  the  ships  blew  over  the  main. 
"They  are  cursed  winds,"  the  mariners  said, 
"  That  blow  us  forever  ahead — ahead ; 
They  will  never  blow  back  to  Spain." 

But  the  master  cited  the  Holy  Writ ; 

And  he  told  of  a  vision  fair, 
How  a  shining  angel  would  show  the  way 
To  the  Indus  isles  and  the  sweet  Cathay, 

And  he  "  knew  they  were  almost  there." 

But  a  sea-calm  came,  and  the  ships  stood  still, 

And  the  sails  drooped  idle  and  low, 
And  a  seaweed  covered  the  vasty  deep 
As  darkness  covers  a  world  in  sleep, 
And  they  feared  for  the  rocks  below. 


84  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

It  was  twelve  that  night  when  a  breeze 
sprang  fresh, 

As  if  from  a  land  close  by, 
And  the  sailors  whispered  each  other  and  said, 
"  God  only  knows  what  next  is  ahead — 

Or  if  to-morrow  we  die." 

It  was  two  by  the  clock  on  the  ship  next 
morn, 

And  breathless  the  sailors  stand, 
With  eyes  strained  into  the  starless  night, 
When,  lo !  there's  a  cry  of  "  A  light,  a  light !" 

And  a  shout  of  "  The  land,  the  land !" 

There  were  weeping  eyes,  there  were  press 
ing  hands, 

Till  the  dawn  of  that  blessed  day ; 
When  the  admiral,  followed  by  all  his  train, 
With  the  flag  of  Christ  and  the  flag  of  Spain, 

Kode  proudly  up  the  bay. 

In  robes  of  scarlet  and  princely  gold, 
On  the  New  World's  land  they  kneel; 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS.  30 

In  the  name  of  Christ,  whom  all  adore, 
They  christened  the  island  San  Salvador, 
For  the  crown  of  their  own  Castile. 

And  the  simple  islanders  gazed  in  awe 
On  the  "  gods  from  another  sphere ;" 

And  they  brought  them  gifts  of  the  Yuca 
bread, 

And  golden  trinkets,  and  parrots  red, 
And  showed  them  the  islands  near. 

They  told  of  the  lords  of  a  golden  house, 

Of  the  mountains  of  Cibao, 
The  cavern  where  once  the  moon  was  born, 
The  hills  that  waken  the  sun  at  morn, 

And  the  isles  where  the  spices  grow. 

From  isle  to  island  the  ships  flew  on, 

Like  white  birds  on  the  main, 
Till  the  master  said,  "With  my  flags  unfurled, 
I  have  opened  the  gates  of  another  world — 

I  will  carry  the  news  to  Spain." 

It  was  seven  months  since  at  Palos  town, 
the  noon  of  that  summer's  day, 


36  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

The  good  ships  sailed,  with  their  flags  un 
furled, 

In  search  of  another  and  far-off  world — 
And  again  they  are  in  the  bay. 

Twelve  months  have  passed,  and  the  king 
again 

Holds  levee  with  all  his  train, 
And  Columbus  sits  at  the  king's  right  hand, 
And,  whether  on  sea  or  upon  the  land, 

Is  the  greatest  man  in  Spain. 

And  the  queen  has  honored  him  most  of  all — 
She  has  taken  him  by  the  hand  : 

"  Don   Christopher  thou   shalt    be    called 
alway ;" 

And  a  golden  cross  on  his  heart  there  lay, 
And  over  his  breast  a  band. 

And  ships  she  gave,  and  a  thousand  men, 

With  nobles  and  knights  in  train  ; 
And  again  the  convent  bells  they  rung, 
And  the  praise  of  his  name  was  on  every 

tongue, 
A**  he  sailed  for  the  West  again — 


THE  BALLAD   OF  COLUMBUS.  37 

To  the  hundred  islands  and  far  away 

In  the  heats  of  the  torrid  zone, 
To  gardens  as  fair  as  Hesperides, 
To  spice-grown  forests,  and  scented  seas 
Where  no  sails  had  ever  blown ; 

And  up  and  down  by  the  New  World's  coast, 

And  over  the  western  main, 
With  but  the  arms  of  his  own  true  word, 
He  lifted  the  flag  of  the  blessed  Lord 

And  the  flag  of  the  land  of  Spain. 

And  he  gave  them  all  to  the  king  and  queen, 

And  riches  of  things  untold  ; 
And  never  a  ship  that  crossed  the  sea 
But  brought  them  tokens  from  fruit  and 
tree, 

And  gems  from  the  land  of  gold. 

Three  times  he  had  sailed  to  his  new-found 
world, 

Five  times  he  had  crossed  the  main, 
When,  walking  once  by  the  sea,  he  heard, 
By  secret  letter  or  secret  word, 

Of  a  murderous  plot  in  Spain — 


38  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

How  that  envious  persons  about  the  court 
Had  poisoned  the  mind  of  the  king 

By  many  a  letter  of  false  report, 

By  base  suspicion  of  evil  sort, 

And  words  with  a  traitorous  sting. 

And  the  king,  half  eager  to  hear  the  worst, 

For  he  never  had  been  a  friend, 
Believed  it  all,  and  he  rued  the  hour 
He  gave  to  the  master  rank  and  power, 
And  resolved  it  should  have  an  end. 

So  with  cold  pretence  of  the  truth  to  hear, 

And  with  heart  that  was  false  as  base, 
A  ship  was  hurried  across  the  main, 
With  Bobadilla,  false  knight  of  Spain, 
To  take  the  admiral's  place. 

O  that  kings  should  ever  unkingly  be  ! 

O  that  men  should  ever  forget ! 
For  that  fatal  hour  the  false  knight  came, 
To  the  king's  disgrace  and  the  great  world's 
shame, 

The  star  of  Columbus  set. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS.  39 

They  took  the  queen's  cross  from  off  his 
breast, 

And  chains  they  gave  him  instead ; 
And  iron  gyves  on  his  wrists  they  put, 
Vile  fetters  framed  for  each  hand  and  foot — 

"  'Twere  better  they  left  him  dead." 

For  he  who  was  first  of  the  new-found  world, 

And  bravest  upon  the  main, 
Who  had  found  the  isles  of  the  fabled  gold, 
And  the  far-off  lands  that  his  faith  foretold, 

Was  dragged  like  a  felon  to  Spain. 

But  the  whole  world  heard  the  clank  of  his 
chains, 

When  he  landed  in  Cadiz  bay ; 
And  fearing  the  taunt  and  the  curse  and  scoff, 
The  false  king  hurried  to  take  them  off, 

At  the  pier  where  the  old  ship  lay. 

But  little  it  helped,  or  the  king's  false  smile, 

As  he  sat  in  his  robes  of  state  ; 
For  wrong  is  wrong,  if  in  hut  or  hall, 
And  the  right  were  as  well  not  done  at  all, 
If  done,  alas !  too  late. 


40  THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS. 

And  little  it  helped  if,  here  and  there, 

The  mantle  of  favor  stole 
Across  his  shoulders,  to  hide  the  stain 
Of  a  broken  heart  or  a  broken  chain — 

They  had  burned  too  deep  in  his  soul. 

So  the  years  crept  by,  and  the  cold  neglect 

Of  kings,  that  will  come  the  while ; 
Forever  and  ever  'tis  still  the  same — 
Short-lived's  the  glory  of  him  whose  fame 
Depends  on  a  prince's  smile. 

And  long  he  thought,  could  he  see  the  queen, 

Could  he  speak  with  her  face  to  face, 
She  would  know  the  truth  and  would  be  again 
What  once  she  was,  ere  his  hopes  were  slain ; 
And  he  sighed  in  his  lonely  place. 

And  on  a  day  when  he  seemed  forgot, 

And  darker  the  fates,  and  grim, 
A  letter  came,  'twas  the  queen's  command, 
"Come  straight  to  court,"  in  her  own  fair  hand, 
And  she  would  be  true  to  him. 

But  alas  for  man,  and  alas  for  queen, 
And  alas  for  hopes  so  sped  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  COLUMBUS.  41 

He  had  only  come  to  the  castle  gate, 
When  the  warder  said,  "It  is  late— too  late, 
For  the  queen,  she  is  lying  dead." 

And  the  king  forgot  what  the  fair,  good  queen 

With  her  dying  lips  had  said ; 
And  he  who  had  given  a  world  to  Spain 
Had  never  a  roof  for  himself  again, 

And  he  wished  that  he,  too,  were  dead. 

Slow  tolled  the  bells  of  old  Seville  town, 

At  noon  of  a  summer's  day ; 
For  up  in  a  chamber  of  yonder  inn, 
Close  by  the  street,  with  its  noise  and  din, 

The  heart  of  the  New  World  lay. 

Perhaps  the  king,  on  his  throne  close  by, 

No  thought  to  the  tolling  gave ; 
But  over  a  world,  far  up  and  down, 
They  heard  the  bells  of  Seville  town, 
And  they  stood  by  an  open  grave. 

And  the  Seville  bells,  they  are  ringing  still, 
Through  the  centuries  far  and  dim  ; 

And  though  it  is  but  the  common  lot 

Of  men  to  die,  and  to  be  forgot, 
They  will  ring  forever  of  him. 


THE  FIKST  KISS. 

CAN  you  tell  me  what  a  kiss  is, 

Lady  mine  ? 

Stands  there  writ  among  the  pages 
Of  the  poets  and  the  sages 

Any  sign  ? 

What  a  kiss  is,  sweet,  then  listen 

Once  to  me  : 

When  the  fairies  first  made  lovers. 
Such  as  you  and  I  and  others — 

In  their  glee, 

They  forgot  to  make  a  sign-word 

And  a  seal — 

Something  that  should  be  a  token 
Of  a  something  still  unspoken, 

That  we  feel. 

Till  one  day  a  man  and  maiden, 

Sweet  as  morn, 

Touched  their  lips  just  so,  together, 
And  out  there,  among  the  heather 

It  was  born. 

42 


THE  FIRST  KISS.  43 

Oh !  the  fairies  laughed  and  cried  so, 

In  the  morn, 

Just  to  think,  in  two  lips  meeting, 
And  in  two  eyes  fondly  greeting, 

It  was  born. 

And  they  laughed,  and  said  together, 

We  will  make 

Out  of  human  lips  a  treasure, 
Loved  and  deep  beyond  all  measure, 

For  their  sake. 

And  with  fairy  wands  they  touched  them, 

And  the  thrill 

Of  the  two  first  lips  together, 
On  that  sweet  morn  in  the  heather, 

Liveth  still. 

And  from  that  morn  unto  this  morn 

Of  our  bliss, 

There  hath  never  been  a  lover 
But  the  sign-word  could  discover 

In  a  kiss. 


PHILIP. 

AH  !  many  and  many  a  year  ago  it  was  — 
And  yet,  but  yesterday  it  might  have  been, 
So  little  changed  are  fields  and  olive  rows, 
And  Prato's   hills,  and   orchards   gold   and 

green, 

And  hearts  of  men  and  women  too,  I  ween. 
Some  things  there  are  that  never  do  grow  old, 
Or,  growing  old,  age  is  not  felt  nor  seen ; 
As  faces  of  the  ones  we  love  —  they  hold 
A  truce  with  time,  —  and  lovers'  tales,  though 

oft  retold. 

Ah !  many  a  year  within  a  cloister's  walls, 
A  friar-painter  brooded  all  the  day ; 
For  even  prayer  sometimes  a  little  palls 
On  honest  hearts  who  count  their  beads  alway, 
And  most  with  those  who  work,  as  well  as 

pray. 

And  so  with  Philip,  young  and  fair,  and  one 
Whom  cities  honored ;  and  men  loved  to  say 


PHILIP.  46 

That  Friar  Philip  painted  Christ  as  none 
In  all  his  far-famed  Italy  had  ever  done. 

Still  was  he  not  content,  for  he  would  trace 

The  Holy  Virgin,  with  a  face  so  fair, 

Men  should  not  say,  "  How  sweet  it  is,  what 

grace, 

What  depth  of  color  and  what  beauty  rare, 
And  still,  no  face  of  any  woman  there." 
He  would  have  flesh,  and  human  blood  and 

bone ; 

Christ  was  a  woman's  son,  the  priests  declare : 
It  was  a  maid,  on  whom  the  starlight  shone 
That  night,  that  sweetest  night,  God's  world 

has  ever  known. 

"  If  I  could  find  in  all  fair  Italy, 

One  face  to  help  me  to  my  face  divine, 

It  should  be  riches,  joy  enough,  for  me, 

Alas !  there  is  not  any  face  so  fine 

As  this  I  see,  this  virgin  face  of  mine. 

If   Heaven  were  gracious  —  no  —  it  cannot 

be, 
That  which  my  soul  for  ever  doth  enshrine, 


46  PHILIP. 

Which  even  in  sleep  comes  tenderly  to  me, 
I  cannot  paint  because  no  form  or  body  can  I 

see." 

One  day,  blessed  day,  within  St.  Margaret, 
A  sisters'  cloister  of  old  Prato  town, 
The  pious  abbess  thought  to  pay  some  debt 
To  some  dead  saint  or  other,  of  renown, 
And  prayed  that  Philip  might  himself  come 

down 

And  paint  a  virgin,  with  a  mother's  face, 
And  Christ,  the  child,  her  glory  and  her  crown, 
A  picture  fitted  for  such  holy  place,  — 
Thus  would  the  sisters  find  some  special  last 
ing  grace. 

Long  up  and  down  the  arched  room  he  went, 
With  folded  hands,  and  eyes  bent  down  alway ; 
His  unused  easel  on  the  altar  leant, 
The  unstained  pallet  on  the  marble  lay, 
His  thoughts,  with  her,  had  wandered  far 

away. 
"  Cursed  fate  "  —  he  cried  —  "  but,  no,  I  do 

forget  — 


PHILIP.  47 

I  will  not  curse,  and  yet  I  cannot  pray." 
Thus  murmured  ever  till  his  dark  eyes  met 
The  nearing,  list'ning  abbess  of  St.  Margaret. 

"  What  is  it,  Philip  ?  list  —  I  heard  you  here  ; 
He  is  more  gracious  than  your  words  allow — 
The  sweetest  face  of  Italy  is  near, 
I  hear  her  singing  in  the  vespers  now  — 
A  month  ago,  she  took  our  novice  vow. 
It  is  not  seeming,  and  perhaps  not  meant, 
And  holy  fathers  they  would  frown,  I  trow, 
To  see  a  novice  to  a  brother  lent, 
E'en  were 't  to  paint  a  picture  of  the  sacra 
ment. 

"  But  you  I  know  and  your  good  heart  ah,  well, 
Take  her  till  prayers,  and  paint  her  as  you 

can, 

Above  that  altar,  that  we  long  may  tell 
We  have  a  picture  by  the  famous  man ; 
It  is  not  every  convent  here  in  Prato  can. 
Bar  well  the  door,  and  let  the  censer  swing, 
It  adds  a  glamour  to  this  room  —  a  spell, 
Perhaps  't  will  aid  in  your  imagining, 
It  is  like  her,  so  fair,  so  beautiful  a  thing." 


48  PHILIP. 

Herself  she  crossed,  and  left  him  at  the  noon — 
The  great  drops  stand  in  Philip's  dark,  deep 

eyes; 

It  is  too  much  to  be  so  blest  so  soon, 
But  he  who  falters  at  this  moment,  dies. 
He  laughs  anon,  and  then  anon  he  sighs. 
The  curtains  part  —  along  the  altar  stair 
A  rustling  gown,  to  where  his  pallet  lies  — 
His  prayed-for   virgin  —  see,  she  waits  him 

there. 
Even  in  his  dreams  she  was  not  half  so  fair. 

Abashed,  and  blushing  like  a  rose  she  stood, 
Her  dark  eyes  resting  on  the  marble  floor ; 
"  Was  this  not  Philip,  whom  the  sisterhood 
Had    praised    a   thousand,   thousand    times, 

before, 

Till  she  herself  was  ready  to  adore  ?  " 
He  took  her  hand  and  gently  led  to  where 
The  sunbeams  bent,  embracing,  from  a  stained 

door, 

Casting  their  shadows  on  an  oaken  chair, 
High-backed  and  carved,  that  was  standing 

there. 


PHILIP.  49 

High-backed  and  carved  and  of  form  antique, 
And  half  way  covered  with  a  cloth  of  gold, 
So  bright,  the  very  sunbeams   even  seemed 

to  seek 

Some  new  warmth  lurking  in  its  secret  fold  — 
As  if  when  she  were  there,  even  marble  could 

be  cold  — 
She  was  herself  so  warm,  and  beautiful,  and 

rare, — 

Not  half  her  beauty  had  the  abbess  told. 
Heaven !    't  is    no    wonder    Philip    can   but 

stare, 
How  could  mere  mortal  paint  a  face  so  fair? 

Her  novice  kerchief  she  has  laid  aside, 
And  loosed  the  girdle  from  her  simple  gown, 
And  her  sweet  bodice  she  has  half  untied, 
And  half  the  abandon  of  her  hair  is  down, 
Her  hair,  so  soft,  and  beautiful,  and  brown. 
He  looked  and  sighed  as  in  a  soothed  bliss, 
Saw  his  ideal  —  of  all  maids,  the  crown, 
The  throat,  the  bosom,  fit  for  cherub's  kiss, 
Alas !  he  was  not  living  who  could  paint  like 
this. 


50  PHILIP. 

He  was  not  living  who  could  paint  a  sigh, 
Or  the  soft  heaving  of  a  loving  breast, 
Nor  the  warm  lustre  of  a  woman's  eye 
When  he  she  loves  is  ling'ring  to  be  prest  -— 
Could  one  so  paint,  he  were  divinely  blest. 
He    tried    and    tried,  then    laid    the    pallet 

down,  — 

The  chapel  bells  were  calling  her  to  prayer, 
Her  beads  she  took,  and,  folding  her  sweet 

gown, 

She  left  him  longing  like  a  spirit  there, 
In  sad,  yet  sweet  and  beautiful  despair. 

But  on  that  night,  when  olive-covered  hills 
Lay  sweet  and  silvered  with  a  summer  moon, 
When  all  was  silence,  save  the  whippoorwills 
Who  tired  not  chanting  in  the  sad  old  roon 
To  the  grim  watchdog  that  had  waked  too 

soon, 
Soft  whisp'ring  lips  half  touched  a  maiden's 

ear: 

"  Arise,  arise,  it  is  the  long  night's  noon, 
And  here  are  kisses  forthee,  sweet,  and  here." 
And  softly  rose  she  without  shame  or  fear. 


PHILIP.  51 

And  softly  stepped  she  on  the  oaken  stair, 
And  softly  stepped  she  in  that  chapel  old, 
The  silver  censer  still  was  swinging  there, 
As  if  a  moonbeam  did  its  weight  uphold, 
It  was  so  light,  and  beautiful  of  mould. 
It  was  not  mockery  that  she  did  kneel, 
Though  round  her   waist  she   felt   an   arm 

enfold, 

Beneath  that  censer  it  was  good  to  feel 
The  old  time  blessing  guilt  could  not  conceal. 

And   out  through   fields,   and   olive   groves 

they  went, 

Through  cypress  alleys,  and  by  forests  green, 
And  purpled  vines,  with  luscious  fruits  all 

bent, 
And   high   stone   walls,   with   narrow   lanes 

between,  — 

And  over  all  the  moonlight's  mellow  sheen. 
Still  on  they  wandered  till  the  coming  day 
Changed  into  purple  the  enchanted  scene ; 
And    when   the   sisters   met   that    morn,  to 

pray, 
They  did  not  dream  how  far  she  was  away. 


52  PHILIP. 

Oh  woe !    oh  woe !    the    sisters    cried    that 

morn, 
And  woe !  swift  neighbors,  as  they  mounted 

steed ; 

And  all  the  hills  re-echo  to  the  horn, 
And  horses'  hoofs,  as  quickly  on  they  speed 
By  brook,  and  bridge,  and  olive  grove  and 

mead. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  not  one  of  them  may  tell 
Where  he  hath  hid  her  in  this  hour  of  need 
If  in  some  cave  of  mountain,  or  some  secre; 

dell  — 
Little,  but  little,  recks  he,  that  they  ride  so 

well. 

Vain   was   demand,  and   vain   was  bishop's 

frown, 
Vain   as   swift    mounting,   and    the   swifter 

chase  — 

But  once,  when  Philip  came  to  Prato  town, 
Men  saw  him  painting,  in  the  market-place, 
The  immortal  picture  of  his  lady's  face  — 
A  face  so  fair  —  a  sorrow  without  pain, 
An  angel's  look,  and  yet  a  woman's  grace  — 


PHILIP.  53 

As  if  a  rose  upon  a  frost  had  lain, 
And  blushed  to  see  itself  a  rose  again. 

Long  dead  is  he  who  painted  there  that  day, 
And  she  whose  face  did  so  his  soul  inspire, 
And  all  those  sisters,  aye,  long  dead  are  they ; 
And  other  hands  now  light  that  altar-fire, 
And  that  sweet  censer  's  like  a  broken  lyre. 
But  through  the  ages,  still  men  love  to  trace 
An  art  new  born  to  Philip,  king  and  sire, 
And  lives  like  song  the  beauty  of  that  face 
That  Philip  Lippi  painted  in  the  market-place. 


MAEGEKY  BKOWN. 

MARGERY  BROWN  is  ever  so  fair, 

There  is  none  like  her,  not  one  in  the  town. 
Brown  are  her  soft  eyes,  and  browner  her  hair, 
Queenly  her  footstep,  and  queenly  her  air — 

No,  there's  no  other  like  Margery  Brown. 

Margery  Brown  is  not  young  as  she  seems, 
Fair  as  she  is  from  her  foot  to  her  crown, 

Lips  archly  bent,  cheeks  with  dimples  and 
gleams, 

Eyes  full  of  summer  and  beautiful  dreams — 
She  is  just  sixty — sweet  Margery  Brown. 

Years  ago,  many,  sweet  Margery  Brown 

Loved  as  a  woman  can  only  know  how ; 
That  was  the  year  of  the  plague  in  the  town, 
And  people  all  wondered  that  Margery 

Brown 
Kept  her  sweet  dimples  and  beautiful  brow. 

"  I  am  still  beautiful,"  Margery  said, 
Bowing  her  face  to  the  form  they  laid  down. 


MARGERY  BROWN.  55 

"He  will  come  back  when  the  poppies  are  red. 
See!  howhe  smiles,  tho'he'sljing  there  dead;" 
And  the  neighbors  all  pitied  mad  Margery 
Brown. 

Years  did  not  reckon  with  Margery  more  ; 

Time  brought  no  dimness  to  eyes  that 

were  brown — 

Fountains  of  youth  kept  her  beauty  in  store. 
"  I  am  yet  young,"  she  still  said,  "as  before," 

And  fair  as  an  angel  was  Margery  Brown. 

Margery  lives  in  a  world  of  her  own. 

What  to  her  if  the  sun  goes  down  ? 
Night  hath  stars  that  never  have  shone, 
And  she  has  hopes  none  other  has  known. 

And  they  keep  her  young,  sweet  Margery 
Brown. 

She  forgets  that  the  years  pass  by, 

Margery  fair,  with  the  quaint- cut  gown, 

Lips  of  roses  and  sunlit  eye, 

Cheeks  where  blushes  and  dimples  vie  ; 
But  all  hearts  love  her — sweet  Margery 
Brown. 


NEWS  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE. 

ALL  the  night  the  President  sat, 

Waiting  the  telegraph's  click,  click,  click  j 
Waiting  the  news  that  should  tell  him  that 

Grant  had  crossed  at  the  little  creek ; 
Waiting  to  hear  that  before  the  light 

Sherman's  troops  were  beyond  the  bridge; 
That  over  the  river,  from  left  to  right, 

All  was  ready  to  charge  the  Ridge. 

Chickamauga  was  lost ;  our  dead 

Lay  in  heaps  on  the  sodden  plain ; 
What  if  the  rebel,  with  lifted  head, 

Strike,  as  he  struck,  to  our  hearts  again ! 
Over  the  North,  as  a  pall  of  night, 

Sorrow  hung,  and  the  summons  came : 
"  Win  a  victory — win  us  a  fight ; 

Wipe  away  from  our  flag  the  shame." 

All  the  night,  in  his  room  alone — 
All  the  night  till  the  dawn  was  by, 

58 


NEWS  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE.          57 

And  over  the  broad  Potomac  shone 
Ked  the  sun  in  the  eastern  sky — 

Watched  the  President,  grave  and  sad — 
Came  no  tick  on  the  mystic  line ; 

What  if  the  daring  rebel  had 

Tapped  the  wire  and  read  the  sign — 

Sign  of  battle,  or  sign  of  gloom  ? 

Hark  !  the  lightning's  messenger ! 
No !    Silence  only  is  in  the  room — 

Silence  only,  and  breath  of  prayer. 
Listen !     Yes,  'tis  the  tick,  tick,  tick — 

"  Clear  the  lines  "  are  the  first  words  sent 
"  Up  to  Washington,  men,  be  quick  ! 

Grant  will  talk  with  the  President." 

Click,  click,  click,  went  the  instrument — 

"  Sherman's  army  has  crossed  the  stream;" 
Nearer  the  table  the  grave  face  leant, 

Lips  half  parted  and  eyes  agleam. 
"  Hooker's  soldiers  but  yesterday 

Stormed  up  Lookout  in  mist  and  rain ; 
They  are  holding  the  dangerous  way, 

They  will  fight  at  our  right  again. 


58  NBWB  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE. 

"  On  the  left  is  our  storming  line, 

Sherman's  legions  are  bending  on  ;" 
Click,  click,  click:  "  On  the  Ridge  there  shine 

Bows  of  cannon  since  early  dawn — 
Bows  of  cannon  and  men  in  gray, 

Shining  columns  of  burnished  steel ; 
They  are  holding  our  men  at  bay, 

They  are  waiting  the  cannon's  peal. 

"  Look !  our  soldiers  have  climbed  the  Ridge; 

Sherman's  gallants  have  stormed  the  line 
Forty  cannon  are  at  the  bridge — 

Brave  these  soldiers  of  his  and  mine !" 
Click,  click,  click  :  "  The  centre  moves, 

Thomas,  Sheridan,  all  abreast, 
Bayonets  fixed — in  troops  and  droves 

Charging  clear  to  the  mountain's  crest. 

"  Battle's  thunder  from  left  to  right, 
Belching  cannon  and  musket's  crash." 

Click,  click,  click  :  "  Lo !  on  every  height 
Flames  of  sulphur  and  lightnings  flash." 

Closer  still  to  the  breathing  wire 
Bends  the  face  of  the  President — 


2TEWS  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE.          59 

Does  he  hear  it,  the  battle's  fire, 
Half-way  over  a  continent  ? 

Does  he  hear  it,  the  bugle's  call, 

Sounding  "  Forward,"  the  whole  long  line  ? 
Sees  he  blue-coat  and  gray-coat  fall  ? 

Hears  he  cannon  and  splintering  pine  ? 
Click,  click,  click  :  "  And  a  thousand  men 

Climb  the  works  on  the  highest  hill — 
Wait !  they  are  driving  us  back  again ! 

No !  our  banner  is  waving  still ! 

"  See  !  we're  storming  the  whole  long  line, 

Waiting  never  a  leader's  cry  ; 
Over  the  rocks  and  splintering  pine — 

We  will  capture  the  Ridge  or  die ! 
Hand  to  hand  on  the  very  crest " — 

Click,  click,  click — "  with  the  naked  steel ; 
Only  a  moment,  and,  east  to  west, 

Flags  are  falling  and  columns  reel. 

"  Shouts  and  cheers  on  the  Eidge  are  heard — 
Shouts  and  cheers  till  the  skies  are  rent ; 

Back  to  the  river,  they've  got  the  word — 
Won  is  the  battle,  our  President !  " 


60  NEWS  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE. 

Quick  as  thought,  and  the  answer  flies  — 
"  Bless  our  soldiers  !  God  bless  each  one !" 

And  up  to  the  loyal  Northern  skies 
Hymns  ascend  for  the  battle  won. 

Kind,  good  President — brave,  strong  men, 

Sounds  of  battle  you'll  hear  no  more — 
Calls  of  bugle  to  charge  again, 

Crash  of  muskets  or  cannon's  roar. 
But,  while  Mountain  and  Ridge  shall  stand, 

They  are  one  with  your  deathless  fame  ; 
Men  shall  tell  to  a  rescued  land 

How  the  news  to  the  White  House  came. 


THE  REVEILLE. 

FOB  the  one  last  reveille 

They  are  waiting  as  they  fell — 

Arm  to  arm,  and  knee  to  knee ; 
They  are  sleeping — it  is  well — 

Till  the  one  last  reveille. 

They  are  sleeping — let  them  rest — 
In  the  sod  they  died  to  save ; 

Fame  shall  write  above  their  breast, 
"  They  are  mine,  though  in  the  grave," 

And  their  spirits  shall  have  rest. 

Feet  of  loved  ones  shall  come  near 
When  the  May  is  in  her  bloom, 

And  with  garlands  every  year 
Deck  their  unforgotten  tomb, 

For,  though  dead,  they  are  so  dear. 

When,  with  fife  and  muffled  drum, 
And  with  steady  step,  and  slow, 

61 


2  THE  REVEILLE. 

They  shall  hear  their  comrades  come, 
They  will  hear  the  step  and  know — 
They  will  hear  them  when  they  come. 

They  will  smell  the  fragrance  sweet 
Of  the  blossoms  that  you  bring  ; 

They  will  hear  the  treading  feet ; 
They  will  hear  the  songs  you  sing ; 

They  will  hear  the  drummers  beat. 

They  will  hear  the  jubilee, 
And  the  bells  that  ring  release — 

They  will  fold  their  arms  and  be 
All  at  rest  in  hope  and  peace, 

While  they  wait  the  reveille. 


LOOK  UP 


Did  you  ever  think  for  a  moment 
That  black  as  the  cloud  may  be 

The  sun  shines  bright  above  it, 
If  only  your  eyes  could  see? 


ii 


That  over  the  mist  and  the  rain-cloud 
There's  bending  a  sky  of  blue, 

If  only  your  soul  could  feel  it, 
If  only  your  spirit  knew? 

Ill 

Did  ever  you  think  in  your  trouble 
When  all  of  the  world  went  wrong, 

That  close,  if  you  only  knew  it, 
There's  beauty,  and  love,  and  song? 

63 


64  LOOK  UP 

TV 


That  out  of  the  cloud  misfortune, 
And  out  of  the  cloud  dismay, 

There's  a  path  that  leads  right  upward, 
If  only  you'd  walk  that  way? 


Just  try  it — go  out  to  Nature, 
And  walk  in  the  shining  sun, 

And  walk  where  flowers  are  blooming, 
And  walk  where  the  rivers  run. 


VI 


And  there,  with  your  soul  uplifted, 
Forgetting  of  care  and  grief, 

You'll  find  the  cure  of  the  ages, 
The  healer  that  brings  relief. 

VII 

For  a  spirit  has  touched  the  sunshine, 
And  an  angel  has  walked  abroad, 

And  the  balm  of  the  air  you're  breathing 
Is  the  balm  of  the  breath  of  God! 


THE   GUARD   ON   THE   VOLGA. 

WH AT i Git  you're  watching,  good  soldier, 

In  the  forest  so  dark  and  lone? 
I  have  heard  of  no  Turkish  cannon, 

And  our  Czar  is  at  peace  at  home. 
Why  stand  on  the  Volga  River, 

When  the  night  is  so  cold  and  drear  ? 
My  Christ !  must  a  soldier  shiver, 

When  never  a  foeman  is  near  ? 

Hark  !  peasant,  across  there,  an  army 

Lies  hid  in  the  brushwood  and  moss, 
And  the  sergeant  said :  "  Watch  by  the  ferry, 

And  see  that  no  picket  shall  cross." 
I  charged  the  red  ditches  at  Plevna, 

And  knew  the  foes'  sabres  by  sight. 
It  was  fierce  !  it  was  death !  but  I  never 

Knew  fear  in  my  life  till  to-night. 

By  Heavens !  I  tremble.     What  is  it  ? 
What  is  it,  this  army  so  near? 

65 


66  THE  GUARD  Off  THE  VOLGA. 

Why  don't  the  drums  beat  to  the  rescue  ? 

Why  is  not  our  Skobeleff  here  ? 
Are  hordes  of  the  desert  upon  us, 

Are  China's  fierce  legions  at  war, 
And  we  but  one  guard  on  the  Volga  ? 

God  save  our  good  land  and  the  Czar ! 

A  fiercer  foe,  far,  than  the  Tartar,  — 

And  armies  of  China  are  small 
When  counted  beside  the  battalions 

That  muster  to  conquer  them  all. 
'T  is  the  Pestilence  marching  in  silence, 

That  hides  in  the  brushwood  and  moss ; 
But  the  sergeant  said :  "  Stick  to  the  ferry 

And  see  that  no  picket  shall  cross." 

Great  God  !     Do  they  think  that  a  picket 

Can  stop  what  the  Heavens  command  ? 
That  bullets  may  wrestle  with  angels, 

To  keep  the  Plague  out  of  the  land  ? 
Oh !  soldier,  I  'm  but  a  poor  peasant, 

Yet  know  that  God  has  but  one  way. 
Trust  sabre,  nor  rifle,  nor  picket, 

But  kneel  by  the  Volga  and  pray. 


THE  GUARD  ON  THE  VOLGA.  6? 

And  peasant  and  soldier  together 

Knelt  down  in  the  forest  alone, 
And  prayed  that  that  night  on  the  Volga 

The  hand  of  the  Lord  should  be  shown. 
And  though  the  Plague  lurks  on  the  border, 

And  hides  'mid  the  brushwood  and  moss, 
God's  angels  keep  watch  o'er  the  ferry, 

And  see  that  no  picket  shall  cross. 


THE   SEA. 

A  CHARM  there  is  about  the  dang'rous  sea 
That  draws  man  to  its  rugged  arms,  as  draws 
The  polar  star  the  compass  to  the  North. 
Let  him  but  taste  the  briny  ocean  once,  — 
Friends,  home,  nor  gold,  can  stay  his  wild 

desire 

To  breast  again  its  waves,  to  breathe  its  air, 
To  brave  its  tempests,  and  to  share  its  calm. 
To  him,  the  deep,  with  all  its  heartless  wreck 
And  ruin,  is  a  thing  to  love.     Its  storms 
Are   playthings  to    his    daring    heart.      He 

sleeps 

Amid  its  foaming  rage,  as  sleeps  a  child 
Upon  some  mossy  bank,  nor  dreams  of  harm 
To  happen,  ere  his  day  has  come. 

To  be 

Upon  its  billowy  breast,  sweetheart  and  wife, 
Mother  and  child,  are  left  to  weep  and  wait 
Through    weary   days,  weeks,    months,  and 

years ;  and  when 


THE  SEA.  69 

At  last  the  longed-for  sailor  comes,  't  is  but 
To  snatch  one  kiss  of  love,  a  wife's  embrace, 
A  mother's  tear  —  then  yield  himself  again 
To  that  strange  spell  which  binds  him  to  the 

sea. 
Again  he  tramps  the  vessel's  deck  ;    climbs 

high 

Among  its  shrouds  and  sails,  and  feels  again 
The  white  sea-foam  leap  up  to  greet  him  with 
Its  rude  embrace.  His  heart  is  strangely  full, 
And  all  he  has  he  gives  to  his  best  love, 
The  sea  —  his  youth,  his  manhood,  and  at  last 
Himself;  then  sweetly  sleeps  the  long  strange 

sleep 
Of  Death  in  the  old  Ocean's  arms. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN! 

THERE  are  no  words  in  our  cold  English 

tongue 

Where  hope  and  joy  are  kin  alike  to  pain  ; 
"Farewell,"  we  say,  and  the  sad  heart  is 

wrung : 
Only  farewell — there  is  no  "  wiedersehen;" 

£i  /  wish  expressed,  no  joyous  hope,  that 
when, — 

The  voyage  ended  o'er  the  dang'rous  main, 
'?'  he  desert  crossed,  the  trial  done, — that  then 

We,  who  have  parted  thus,  may  meet  again. 

Sot  so  farewell  the  German  sailor  cries, 
Not  so good-by , sad  sweetheart  unto  swain. 

i  go  to  come — he  is  not  dead  who  dies ; 
Good-by,  sweet  love, — but,  till  we  meet 

again. 

TO 


AUF  WIBDRRSKHEN!  71 

"Auf  wiedersehen" — a  hundred  thoughts  in 

one — 

The  double  joy  that  recompenses  pain : 
There  is  a  rising  as  a  setting  sun  ; 

Good-by,  sweet  love,  good-by — "  auf  wie 
dersehen." 

"Auf  wiedersehen" — good-by,  but  not  for 

aye; 
Thou  still  shalt  be  my  one  sweet  song's 

refrain. 
Though  thou  dost  go,  thus  ever  shalt  thou 

stay,— 

Good-by,  sweet  love,  good-by — "  auf  wie 
dersehen." 

"  Auf  wiedersehen" — good-by,  good-by,  and 

when 
Hope  hath,  in  trust,  the  wicked  absence 

slain, 

I  will  be  with  you  every  hour ;  till  then 
Good-by,  sweet  love,  good-by — "  auf  wie 
dersehen." 


THE  TRAMP  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY. 

LIST,  comrades,  I  bear  the  old  bugle  ; 

It's  sounding  the  same  reveille 
That  wakened  tha  armies  of  Sherman 

One  morn  by  the  swift  Tennessee. 
A  thousand  old  memories  crowd  on  me  ; 

My  tired  feet  are  marching  along, 
Keeping  steps  with  the  notes  of  yon  bugle, 

Or  the  words  of  some  old  army  song. 

I  see  Hooker's  lines  climbing  Lookout, 

The  storming  of  Sherman's  brave  men, 
The  "  Ridge,"  and  the  Centre,  and  Thomas, 

The  flag  floating  up  there  again  ; 
And  Grant  standing  there  like  a  statue, 

Unmoved  till  the  battle  is  done  ; 
And  the  words  of  great  Lincoln,  I  hear  them — 

"  God  bless  you,  brave  men,  every  one." 

And  the  fields  fiercely  fought  for  Atlanta, 
Once  more  to  my  vision  they  rise — 


THE  TRAMP  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY.      73 

A  hundred  long  days,  each  a  battle, 
And  nights  full  of  dread  and  surprise. 

Each  mountain  and  hill  grows  historic ; 
Each  stream  from  some  battle  is  red  ; 

Each  field  is  swift  mown  with  war's  sickle  ; 
Each  hillock's  some  grave  of  our  dead. 

I  see  the  flag  float  o'er  Atlanta — 

The  tattered  old  flag  that  we  bore 
A.t  Shiloh  and  Vicksburg  and  Corinth, 

And  a  score  of  red  battles  before. 
With  a  cheer  on  the  ramparts  we  raise  it, 

A  cheer,  and  a  sigh  for  our  men 
Who  sleep  in  the  woods  over  yonder, 

Who'll  never  see  battle  again. 

###**## 
Again  the  old  bugle  is  sounding  • 

There's  a  tramping  of  thousands  of  men ; 
The  mountains  repeat  the  wild  music  ; 

The  forests  re-echo  again. 
And  around  every  camp-fire's  the  story 

Of  fame  and  of  glory  to  be, 
And  a  shout  of  blue-coated  battalions, 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea. 


74      THE  TRAMP  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY. 

And  look !  the  great  columns  are  moving 

To  music  of  bugle  and  drum  ; 
Their  blood-colored   flags  pointing  south 
ward, 

Like  tempests  the  blue  columns  come, 
While  millions  stand  breathlessly  waiting 

The  boom  of  a  far  signal-gun, 
For  the  blaze  of  that  cannon  shall  tell  them 

How  bravely  Savannah  was  won. 

Oh !  where  are  the  men  who  took  Lookout, 

Or  stormed  up  the  "  Bidge"  on  that  day  ? 
Who  held  the  hot  lines  at  the  "  Tunnel," 

Or  drove  the  fierce  foeman  to  bay  ? 
Oh !  where  are  the  legions  of  Sherman  ? 

God  bless  them,  wherever  they  be, 
Who  fought  with  him  all  that  war-summer, 

Or  marched  with  him  down  to  the  sea. 

Where,  where  are  the  heroes  who  wakened 
That  morn  by  the  swift  Tennessee, 

When  the  bugles  of  Sherman  said  "  For 
ward," 
Or  sounded  their  loud  reveille  ? 


THE  TRAMP  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY.      "J5 

Where,  where  are  the  men  of  Resaca, 
Of  Dallas,  of  Kenesaw — where? 

Fame  writ  their  names  up  in  her  temple, 
And  Freedom  stands  guarding  them  there. 

Oh  patriots !  oh  comrades !  we  know  you  ; 

Your  hands  are  still  touching  our  own  ; 
The  flag  that  we  saved  there  together — 

No  star  from  its  glory  has  flown. 
Again  we  touch  elbows ;  your  spirits 

Are  with  us  to-night  in  this  room  ; 
There's  Logan,  I  know  by  his  bearing, 

McPherson  I  see  by  his  plume. 

There's  Sheridan  riding  his  charger, 

And  Thomas,  so  brave  and  serene, 
And  Hooker,  and  Grant,  the  great  captain, 

His  eye  resting  still  on  the  scene  ; 
And  spirits  of  blue-coated  soldiers 

Are  wheeling  from  column  to  line  ; 
They  see  the  great  chief  and  salute  him, 

And  give  him  the  new  countersign. 

Fill  up  again,  comrades,  your  glasses  ; 
Let's  drink  to  these  spirits,  and  be 


76      THE  TRAMP  OF  SHKltMAN'S  ARMY. 

Once  more  the  old  army  of  Sherman, 
That  stood  by  the  blue  Tennessee. 

Let's  keep  the  old  camp-fires  a-buruing, 
The  songs  and  the  memories  bright, 

Till  the  bugle  shall  sound  by  yon  river — 
All  hail !  and  forever — good-night ! 


THE   BALLAD    OF  QUTNTIN   MASSY. 

WHO  goes  to  the  city  of  Antwerp,  that  fa 
mous  old  Flemish  town, 

Will  see,  in  the  square  of  the  Miinster,  a 
fountain  of  great  renown. 

It  stands  by  the  grand  Cathedral,  the  churcli 

with  the  wondrous  chimes, 
And  the  maidens  go  there  for  water,  as  they 

went  in  the  olden  times ; 

And  they  meet  and  talk  of  .their  lovers,  til] 

their  pitchers  are  running  o'er, 
And  wonder  if  Flemish  lovers  will  be  what 

they  were,  once  more,  — 

Will  be  what  they  were  when  Quintin,  as 

famous  in  art  as  in  love, 
Wrought   out   from    the    heated     iron    the 

Roland  that  stands  above. 

As  gallant  a  youth  was  Quintin  as  any  in 
Antwerp  town, 


78       THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN  MASSY. 

And  never  a  better  blacksmith  made  bellows 
go  up  and  down  ; 

And  never  a  Flanders  lover  had  maiden  more 

richly  fair, 
Than  the  daughter  of  proud   Franz  Floris, 

renowned  of  the  painters  there. 

But  the  haughty,  the  proud  Franz  Floris 
looked  up  from  his  easel,  and  said : 

"The  world  it  has  got  but  one  Floris,  with 
only  one  child  to  wed. 

And  he  who  will  woo  and  win  her,  must  first 
be  a  painter,  and  paint 

This  fairest  of  faces  in  Flanders, — knight- 
errant,  or  king,  or  saint. 

I   note   that  you   are   a   blacksmith,  and   a 

clever  one,  too,  they  say  — 
There  are  many  fair  girls  in  Antwerp  would 

marry  you  any  day. 

But  the  daughter  of  old  Franz  Floris  can 

never  give  heart  nor  hand 
To  one  who  is  not  the  equal  of  any  in  all  the 

land." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  QUIN TIN  MASSY,       jg 

"  Now,  good  Franz  Floris,  listen  —  I  '11  tell 

you  what  I  will  do  — 
There   is   not   in   the  whole  of   Flanders  a 

painter  so  great  as  you ; 

Hut  if,  within  five  short  summers,  I  paint  on 

a  canvas  clear, 
A  picture  better  than  any  of  all  you  have 

painted  here,  — 

Do  you  promise  upon  your  honor,  do  you 

promise  your  own  good  name, 
That  she  shall  be  mine  forever?  be  one  in 

my  love  —  my  fame  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  great  Franz  Floris :  "  Too 

modest,  young  man,  by  far. 
Art  is  not  won  like  a  maiden,  nor  maidens 

as  some  things  are. 

I  grant  that  to  be  a  blacksmith,  to  hammer 

a  nail  or  a  ring, 
Is  an  easy  task  for  a  young    man,  but   art 

is  another  thing. 

And  whether  my  daughter  is  willing  to  wait 
five  summers  for  you  ? 


80      THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN  MASSY. 

There  are  enough  of  Antwerp's  gallants  who 
wait  but  my  leave  to  woo." 

"  I  '11  wait !  "  cried    Floris'   daughter  ;   "  I  '11 

wait,  good  Quintin,  nor  wed  ; 
Five  summers  will  find  me  faithful,  or  else 

they  will  find  me  dead." 

So  he  buckled  his  sword  about  him,  and  with 

pilgrim's  staff  in  hand, 
He  wandered  along  fair  rivers,  he  journeyed 

through  many  a  land  ; 

And  an  image  was  ever  before  him:  "Could 

I  paint  what  my  soul  doth  see, 
There  is  not  a  painter  in  Flanders,  who  would 

not  be  envying  me." 

So  out  from  the  fields  of  Holland,  and  over 

cold  fields  of  snow, 
By  many  an  Alpine  torrent,  by  many  a  gorge 

below, 

The  feet  of  the  pilgrim  wandered,  far  into 

that  favored  clime, 
Where  art  is  a  child  of  nature,  and  nature 

a  thing  sublime. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN  MASSY.       81 

Then   he    tarried   and   sought   a    master,  in 

color,  and  form,  and  line, 
And  watched  the  summer  sunsets  go  out  in 
r     a  sea  of  wine. 

And   the  days   went   by,  and  the   summers 

in  splendor  their  cycles  ran. 
And   the  smith   became  a  scholar,  and   the 

scholar  the  fullgrown  man. 

Five  years  to  a  day  had  vanished,  five  years 

and  a  month  had  flown, 
And  the  autumn  had  brought  no  message  to 

her  who  was  left  alone. 

"  He  is  dead,"  she  cried,  "  my  lover,  for  faith 
less  he  could  not  be  ;  " 

"  He  is  dead,"  the  false  winds  whispered, 
"  he  is  dead,  but  not  for  thee." 

One  day,  when  the  great  Franz  Floris  stood 

leaning  on  Quiritin's  well, 
A  pedler  unloosed  his  bundle,  with  curious 

things  to  sell: 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  buy  something !  I 
have  nothing  to  eat  or  wear ! 


g9       THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN  MASSY. 

I  am  told  you  are  fond  of  pictures,  and  here 
I  have  one  that 's  rare : 

It  has  neither  frame  nor  stretcher  —  but  the 

colors  remain  as  clear  "  — 
"  What  is  that  ?  good  heaven !  "  cried  Floris, 

"  't  is  my  child  that  is  painted  here. 

Who  —  where   is   the   master  painter?  how 

much  is  the  price  you  seek  ? 
There  is  not  a  man  in  Flanders  can  paint  such 

a  brow  and  cheek." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  the  stranger  answered, 
"thank  God  that  you  think  it  true, 

For  that  picture  is  Quintin  Massy's,  who 
claims  your  daughter  of  you." 

"If  you   are  Quintin  Massy,  and  if  this  is 

the  work  of  your  hand, 
There  is  not  such  another  painter  in  all  of 

this  Flemish  land. 

There 's  not  such  another  painter,  but  I  've 

news  that  is  sad  for  you, 
And  if  you  are  Quintin  Massy,  you  '11  know 

what  I  say  is  true :  — ^ 


THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN  MASSY.      83 

Five   summers   my   child    had   waited,   five 

summers  their  autumns  wed, 
And  the  winter  brought  no  message,  and  the 

poor  child  thought  thee  dead. 

"  He  is  dead,'  she  cried,  '  my  lover,  for  faith 
less  he  could  not  be  ; ' 

'He  is  dead,'  the  false  winds  whispered,  'he 
is  dead,  but  not  for  thee.' 

This  morning,  this  very  morning,  when  the 

cloister  bells  strike  nine, 
There  will  be  another  sister  at  the  cloister 

of  Isoline ; 

When  the  bell  strikes  nine  and  a  quarter, 
she  will  kneel  for  the  one  last  vow,  — 

'T  is  a  mile  from  here,  good  Quintin,  and  the 
bells  are  ringing  now." 

%k  Horse  —  horse  !  "  cries  Quintin  Massy,  and 

his  cloak  is  cast  afar, 
And  he  rides  with  sword  and  buckler,  as  a 

soldier  would  ride  to  war. 

The  bell  strikes  five  already  —  the  bell  strikes 
six  —  and  eight, 


84      THE  BALLAD  OF  QUINTIN 

But  Quintin's  sword  has  rattled  the  bars  of 
the  cloister  gate. 

"  Who  comes  ? "  cries  the  angered  abbess, 
"  who  storms  at  the  cloister  door  ? 

I  tell  you  that  Floris'  daughter  is  a  child  of 
the  world  no  more. 

For   the   solemn   mass  is  chanting,  and  she 

kneels  at  the  altar  rail, 
And  pious  nuns  attend  her,  and  bring  her 

the  sisters'  veil." 

"Stop,  stop  your  prayers,"  cries  Quintin, 
"for  I  swear  by  Antwerp  town, 

You  '11  bring  me  Floris'  daughter,  or  I  '11 
burn  your  cloister  down." 

And  the  pale,  poor  nuns  grew  whiter,  as 
white  as  the  bands  they  wore, 

And  they  led  a  maiden  fainting,  and  veiled, 
to  the  cloister  door. 

"It  is  done!"    cried  Quintin    Massy,    "the 

picture  I  saw,  is  done! 
And  as  you   are   Floris'  daughter,  so  I  am 

to  be  his  son." 


THE  &  ALL  AD  OF  QUlNTIN  MASSY.       85 

And  the  chimes  of  the  famous  Miinster  rang 

out  in  a  joyous  tune, 
As  the  bride  and  her  blacksmith  painter  rode 

by  on  that  afternoon. 


BABY   HELl^NE. 


SHE  was  only  a  child  of  the  May-day, 
That  came  when  the  sweet  blossoms  fell, 

But  rarer  than  any  fair  lady 
Of  whom  the  old  poets  may  tell. 

Then  the  days  brought  us  everything  sweeter 
Of  sunshine  and  love  in  their  train, 

But  better  than  all  and  completer, 
Was  Baby  Hele*ne. 

With  a  kiss  and  a  smile  she  came  to  us, 
The  sunshine  of  God  in  her  hair, 

Ah !  never  a  sweet  wind  that  blew  us 
A  blossom  so  tender  and  rare. 

We  sang  a  new  May-song  together, 
New-found  and  of  jubilant  strain, 

Ah  !  our  hearts  they  were  light  as  a  feather, 
With  Baby  Hele*ne. 

Would  she  stay  with  us,  love  us  ?  We  bid  her 
Unloosen  the  notes  of  her  song  — 

n 


BABY  HELENS.  87 

And  tell  where  the  sweet  angels  hid  her, 
And  why  had  we  waited  so  long. 

Would  they  sorrow  in  Heaven  to  miss  her  ? 
Would  they  wait  for  her,  weary  to  pain  ? 

Would  they  anger  to  see  us  but  kiss  her, 
Our  Baby  Hetene  ? 

And  all  the  day  long,  like  new  lovers, 
Like  words  that  are  ever  in  tune, 

Like  songs  the  fresh  May-wind  discovers, 
Like  birds  that  are  mating  in  June,  — 

Together  we  loved  and  we  wandered, 
Forgetting  of  sorrow  or  pain, 

Forgetting  the  sweets  that  we  squandered, 
With  Baby  Hele'ne. 

Oh !  lips  running  over  to  kisses, 

Red  cheeks  kissed  to  brown  by  the  sun, 

Shall  we  ever  again  know  what  bliss  is, 
When  the  song  and  the  kisses  are  done  ? 

Oh  !  baby,  brown-haired,  on  thy  tresses 
The  hands  of  the  angels  had  lain, 

And  joy  laughed  new-born  in  caresses 
Of  Babv  Helene. 


88  BABY  HELENS. 

Years  went  —  seven  years  with  their  story 

More  bright  than  Aladdin's  of  old, 
To  love  and  be  loved  was  our  glory, 

Our  hearts  were  our  castles  of  gold. 
But  broken  our  castles,  and  falling, 

Hope  crushed  —  true  hearts  bleeding  and 

slain, 

God's  angels  in  Heaven  were  calling 
Our  Baby  Helcne. 

Dim-eyed,  and  heart-broken,  we  waited 

The  sounds  of  invisible  things, 
While  the  soul  of  our  soul  was  remated, 

Borne  off  on  invisible  wings. 
In  the  far-away,  purple  and  golden, 

Went  up  an  ineffable  strain, 
And  the  far-away  gates  were  unfolden 
To  Baby  Helcne. 

One  moment,  God's  earth  and  its  brightness 
Seemed  darkened  and  turned  into  dross, 

And  the  manifold  stars  and  their  lightness 
Were  dimmed  and  as  nothing  to  us. 

For  the  bowl  that  was  golden  was  broken, 
The  hearts  that  we^  one  heart,  were  twain. 


BAB  Y  HELENS.  89 

And  the  last  words  of  love  had  been  spoken 
By  Baby  Hele*ne. 

Ah  !  seven  years  gone  as  the  dream  goes, 

Oh  !  baby-love,  lost  to  our  ken,  — 
Will  the  brooklet  still  flow  where  the  stream 

flows  ? 

Will  the  lilies  still  blossom  as  then  ? 
Will  the  sweet  tongues  of  birds  be  unloosed 

to 

The  songs  of  our  love  and  its  pain  ? 
Will  the  violets  bloom  as  they  used  to 
For  Baby  Helene  ? 

Oh !  baby-love,  heart-sweet,  the  sunlight 
That  fell  on  the  way  that  you  went, 

Shall  be  to  our  feet  as  the  one  light, 
The  lamp  the  sweet  angels  have  lent. 

And  the  nights  and  the  days  shall  be  lighter, 
And  the  ways  that  were  dark  ways  be  plain, 

And  the  stars  where  thou  art  shall  be  brighter 
For  Baby  Hele*ne. 


THE   DWARF   OF   MYTILENE. 

THERE  dwelt  in  Mytilene  once, 

By  the  ^Egaean  sea, 
A  little  wrinkled,  dwarfish  man, 

No  uglier  could  there  be  ; 
But  a  very  prince  of  ferrymen, 

And  stout  of  limb  was  he. 

No  man  had  ever  vainly  dared, 

No  woman  feared  to  go, 
To  any  island  in  that  sea, 

Whatever  winds  might  blow, 
If  only  Phaon's  boat  were  there, 

And  Phaon's  self,  to  row. 

For  men  have  seen  him  when  the  waves 

Grew  loud  and  thick  apace, 
When  wild  winds  blew  from  Asia's  sides, 

And  storms  came  down  from  Thrace, 
Sail  out  as  if  to  dare  their  rage, 

And  fight  them  face  to  face. 


THE  DWARF  OF  MYTILENE.  91 

And  yet  a  life  of  woe  was  his, 

On  land  or  stormy  main ; 
No  bright  eyes  ever  on  him  smiled, 

No  sweet  voice  called  his  name ; 
In  sun,  or  shade,  or  storm,  or  calm, 

His  days  were  all  the  same. 

Proud  maidens  of  the  Lesbian  Isle, 

Proud  men  of  high  degree, 
Curled  their  cold  lips,  and  passed  him  by, 

As  one  unfit  to  be  ; 
And  children  shouted,  "See,  he  comes, 

The  old  man  of  the  sea." 

One  day  in  the  sweet  summer-time, 

There  came  across  the  hills 
The  kindly  lowing  of  the  herds, 

The  songs  of  many  rills, 
And  the  old  man  leaned  him  on  his  oar, 

And  thought  upon  his  ills. 

He  thought  of  those  proud  Lesbian  dames, 
And  those  proud-hearted  men  — 

He  cursed  his  bitterness  of  fate, 
He  cursed  the  gods,  and  then 


92  THE  DWARF  OF  MYTILENE. 

Wished  that  the  sun  that  saw  him  born 
Had  never  shone  again. 

He  dropped  his  oar,  he  crossed  his  arms, 

When  o'er  the  sands  apace 
A  step  drew  near.     He  turned  and  saw 

A  fair  young  woman's  face  — 
No  maiden  was  there  like  to  her 

In  all  the  Lesbian  race. 

"  O,  who  art  thou,  thou  queenly  maid  ? 

From  whence  now  may'st  thou  be  ?  " 
"  I  am  the  Queen  of  Love,"  she  said : 

"  Wilt  bear  me  o'er  the  sea  ? 
For  yonder,  on  that  island  fair, 

Adonis  waits  for  me." 

O,  never  yet  had  ferryman 

A  passenger  so  fair,  — 
O,  never  had  the  sun  shone  on 

So  strangely  matched  a  pair, 
As  wrinkled  Phaon  at  the  oars, 

And  Venus  smiling  there. 

The  boat  went  up,  the  boat  went  down, 
Forward  and  forward  still, 


THE  DWARF  OF  MYTILENE.  93 

While  Phaon  stood  behind  the  o^irs, 

And  worked  with  mighty  wilL 
And  Mytilene's  lights  grew  dim.. 

On  every  tower  and  hill. 

The  land  was  reached,  the  harbor  passed, 

The  goddess  sprang  on  shore. 
"  What  shall  I  pay,  good  ferryman, 

Since  thou  hast  brought  me  o'er  ?  * 
And  Phaon,  bowing,  answered  her, 

"  Thy  smiles,  and  nothing  more. ' 

"  A  woman's  smiles,"  the  goddess  said, 

"  May  come  or  go  at  will, 
They  slay  as  often  as  they  bless, 

Nor  pity  when  they  kill. 
But  thou  shalt  have  a  richer  fate, 

A  dowry  better  still." 

She  touched  the  girdle  at  her  side, — 
Transformed,  the  old  man  stood, 

The  fairest  mortal  ever  seen 
On  the  .^Egsean  flood  — 

A  dwarf,  in  one  sweet  moment  made 
The  equal  of  a  god. 


THE   PIONEERS. 

Touch  memory's  veil ;  who  lived  then  can  forget 
The  hardier  lives  of  yonder  pioneers? 

The  old  log  house — I  see  it  standing  yet, 
Back  from  the  road  where  the  new  home  ap 
pears. 

Ah !  that  log  house,  with  its  plain  puncheon  floor, 
Its  clapboard  roof,  and  papered  window  screen, 

Could  it  but  speak  and  tell  the  tales  once  more 
Of  the  old  days  that  it  and  they  have  seen! 

The  simple  fire-place,  built  of  sticks  and  clay, 
The  unbolted  door,  on  wooden  hinges  swung; 

"Come  in,"  was  writ  on  every  heart  that  day, 
The  welcoming  latch  string  to  the  stranger 
hung. 

Then  all  were  neighbors,  whether  far  or  near, 
And  all  were  friends,  no  matter  rich  or  poor ; 

Misfortune  claimed  the  rudest  settler's  tear, 
Distress  and  loss  were  yet  of  pity  sure. 

And  joys  were  shared  by  everyone  the  same; 
To  fair  or  feast  each  soul  was  bid  to  come ; 

94 


THE  PIONEERS  95 

No  child  but  heard  the  welcomed  stranger's  name, 
No  hearth  so  small  but  by  it  there  was  room. 

Then  things  were  great  that  pass  unheeded  now — 
The  weekly  mail,  the  school  house  in  the  wood, 

The  threshing  days,  the  new-bought  prairie  plow, 
The  old-time  clock  that  by  the  window  stood. 

The  spelling  school,  where  old  as  well  as  young, 
Stood  round  the  wall  to  spell  each  other  down ; 

The  singing  master,  the  old  songs  he  sung, 
And  singing,  taught  the  names  of  state  and 
town. 

The  circuit  preacher  on  his  monthly  ride, 

With  simple  ways,  such  as  the  Master  taught : 

Nor  scrip  he  bore,  nor  gold,  nor  aught  beside ; 
They   welcomed  him   for   the  glad  news   he 
brought. 

The   meeting-house — the   first  green   grave   be 
hind — • 

Ah!  that  first  grave  in  yonder  settlement; 
The  sweet-briar  bush  bends  o'er  it  in  the  wind : 
The  plain  board  tells  the  year,  the  day  she 
went. 

Brown-haired  and  sweet  and  like  a  flower  she 

grew 

Till  her  soft  eyes  with  love's  dear  lamps  were 
Ht; 


96  THE  PIONEERS 

Breathe  not  her  name,  enough,  they  loved  who 

knew, 

One  heart  string  broke — her  epitaph  is  writ. 
****** 

Those  far-off  times, — who  saw  will  not  recall 
The  old-time  weddings  of  that  merrier  day, — 

The  feast,  the  dance,  the  wedding-infair, — all 
So  strangely  different  from  our  modern  way. 

No  perfumed  notes  announced  the  happy  time; 

From  home  to  home  the  joyous  news  was  sent ; 
The  singing  birds  made  merrier  wedding  chime 

As  friend  and  neighbor  to  the  cabin  went. 

And  many  a  youth  across  the  prairies  rode, 
Whole  heart,  and  free,  into  the  odorous  air, 

Nor  dreamed  that  Cupid  watched  yon  rude  abode, 
That  fate  and  love  were  waiting  for  him  there. 

Like  a  wild  rose  that  over  night  had  bloomed, 
With  eyes  like  skies  where  swallows  love  to 

swim, 

She  came,  he  saw,  and  all  things  were  illumed, — 
A  simple  rose,  that  waited  there  for  him. 
****** 

The  guests  have  come;  the  marriage  will  begin, 
The  preacher's  word  in  kindly  mood  is  said ; 

The  bride  is  kissed  by  all  her  kith  and  kin, 
The  table  waits,  the  wedding  feast  is  spread — 


THE  PIONEERS  97 

Quick  flies  the  meal,  the  cabin  floor  is  cleared ; 

The  violin,  in  yonder  corner,  hear, 
Old    Jerry    Church    has   stroked    his    bow    and 
beard — • 

Old  Jerry  Church  to  all  the  county  dear. 

And  all  the  night  be  tells  the  dances  through ; 
"Choose   partners,    all!"    he   lifts   his   bow   and 

calls — 
Out  on  the  grass,  close  by  the  chimney  walls, 

The  table  stands,  the  big  decanter,  too. 

And  all  the  night  the  merry  dance  goes  on — 
Eyes  melt,  hearts  break,  just  as  in  marble  hall ; 

O  love,  O  love,  whatever  times  are  gone, 
Thou  still  hast  been  the  master  of  them  all. 

Let  none  deride  these  simple  marriage  ways, 
Love  sat  with  them  by  every  wedding  vow, 

And  courts  were  not,  in  those  old-fashioned  days, 
For  marriage  scandal,  as  we  see  them  now. 

But  not  their  weddings  gave  them  joy  alone — 

The  quilting  bees,  with  rude  and  simple  cheer — 
The    husking   corn,    where   many   a  bright   eye 

shone — 

The  kiss  to  him  who  found  the  lucky  ear ; 
For  them  the  grouse  boomed  at  the  early  dawn, 
The  antlered  elk  roamed  o'er  the  enflowered 
plain ; 


98  THE  PIONEERS 

In  the  tall  grass  the  red  deer  hid  its  fawn; 
They  knew  the  spot  where  the  gray  wolf  had 
lain. 

At  times  they  heard  the  bison's  mighty  roar, 
As  in  vast  herds  they  battled  long  and  far, 

Or  watched  them  thundering  the  broad  prairies 

o'er 
When  terror-struck,  like  flying  hosts  of  war. 

Nature  for  them  endowed  with  magic  hand 
A  scene  as  fair  as  Araby,  the  blest — 

Tired  of  the  old,  she  touched  with  magic  wand, 
There  sprang  to  life  the  prairies  of  the  West. 

Not  desert  sands,  and  leagues  of  burning  plains, 
Far  and  encircling  to  some  ocean's  brim — 

But  billowy  waves  of  blossom-covered  mains 
Swept  in  great  seas  to  the  horizon's  rim. 

And  farther,  farther,  past  the  setting  sun, 
Rolled   grassy   waves,   now    purple  and   now 

green ; 
Touched  by  the  wind  they  bend,  and  bow,  and 

run — 
It  is  the  land  that  only  God  has  seen. 

A  thousand  years  it  blossomed  just  as  now; 

A  thousand  years  the  harvest  moons  had  set, 
And  suns  arose,  nor  scythe,  nor  any  plow, 

Nor  human  hands,  had  ever  touched  it  yet. 


THE  PIONEERS  99 

And  other  scenes,  and  fierce,  the  pioneer 
Sees  from  his  cabin,  standing  there  alone, 

When  autumn's  frost  turns  the  green  prairies 

sear, 
And  these  same  billows  into  flames  are  blown. 

Night  comes:  he  sees   with  anxious  heart  the 

sky — 

Far,  far  away,  a  strange  and  reddening  hue ; 
Long  bars  of  light  on  the  horizon  lie, 

Red  streaks  of  flame  the  black  clouds  bursting 
through. 

Some  roaming  hunter,  doubtless,  made  his  bed 
In  the  tall  grass,  or  by  some  cooling  stream, 

Lit  his  lone  fire,  nor,  careless,  saw  it  spread 
Until  too  late,  the  whole  night  is  agleam! 

In  bounds  and  darts  the  lighted  grasses  go; 

Leaps  to  its  start  the  dreaded  prairie  fire, 
In  long,  long  lines  the  burning  billows  glow, 

Roars  the  night  wind,  the  flames  are  leaping 
higher. 

Like  battle  steeds  th'  extending  lines  rush  on, 
Black  grows  the  night,  save  where  their  ban 
ners  are. 
One  sweep,  one  roar,  and  flowers  and  grass  are 

gone; 
The  moon  goes  out;  there  is  not  any  star. 


100  THE  PIONEERS 

Wild,  fierce,  devouring,  o'er  the  waste  they  come, 
The  very  ground  burns  'neath  them  as  they 
pass, 

As  if  the  world  were  hurrying  to  its  doom, 
And  earth  and  sky  had  turned  to  molten  brass. 

Nor  battle  scene,  nor  wild  Niagara's  roar, 
Nor  seething  /Etna  with  its  lava  hiss, 

Nor  ocean,  thrashing  on  its  rocky  shore, 

So  threatening  seemed,  yet  beautiful,  as  this. 

Alarmed,  alone,  by  yonder  little  farm, 
The  settler  guards  like  midnight  sentinel ; 

Fights  flame  with  flame,  keeps  house  and  stacks 

from  harm, 
And  gives  God  thanks  when  all  has  ended  well. 


O !  tell  me,  have  you  seen  her, 

This  brown-haired  love  of  mine? 
They  call  her  sweet  September, 

And  she  is  all  divine. 
A  painter  is  my  lady, 

And,  O,  such  heavenly  skill ! 
One  little  touch  of  her  white  hand 

Can  color  all  the  hill. 

I  saw  her  yester-morning 

Pass  down  along  the  lane ; 
The  woodbine  turned  its  leaves  to  red 

To  see  her  face  again. 
The  wild  crab-apples  on  the  trees 

Felt  warmer  pulses  stir; 
The  orchard  and  the  forest  leaves 

Went  blushing  all  for  her. 

She  crossed  the  new-mown  meadows, 

Her  pallet  in  her  hand, 
And  colors  of  the  rainbow  fell 

Upon  the  happy  land. 
She  touched  the  sumac  with  her  breath, 

To  scarlet  red  it  turned ; 
And  all  the  hedge-rows  by  the  lane 

With  gold  and  scarlet  burned. 

101 


102  LOVE  AND  SEPTEMBER 

The  purpling  grapes  in  clusters 

Upon  the  am'rous  vine 
She  pressed  and  gave  new  promise 

Of  a  more  luscious  wine. 
And  by  the  lazy  stream  she  walked, 

And  past  the  dusty  mills ; 
She  left  a  mist  upon  the  fields, 

A  purple  on  the  hills. 

I  would  that  you  had  seen  her 

As  through  the  woods  she  went, 
A  touch,  a  trifle  mortal, 

But  more  of  heaven  lent. 
The  happy  breezes  kissed  her 

Where  smiles  and  dimples  lay, 
The  winds  and  sunshine  kissed  her- 

O  would  that  I  were  they. 


ON  A    FAIR   DEAD   GIRL. 

How  beautiful  to  die  as  does  the  rose, 
Sweet  fragrance  casting  on  the  am'rous  air  J 
What  if  too  lovely  seemed  life's  way  to  close, 
When  death  still  leaves  us  with  a  scene  so 
fair. 

Like   to   the   rose   thy   life   was   one   sweet 

bloom, 
Till  Fate  undid  thee  from  the   fair   young 

stem ; 

It  is  not  fit,  this  silent  pall  and  plume, 
These  weeping  maidens,  and  these  sorrowing 

men. 

Thou  hadst  fair  youth,  and  life's  sweet  things 

the  best, 
Knew  naught  of  Sorrow,  or  its  lonely  consort 

Pain ; 
Thou  hadst  the  joys  of  life  —  leave  us  the 

rest, 
Who  well  have  known  how  much  of  life  is 

vain. 

108 


104  ON  A  FAIB  DEAD  GIEL. 

Thy  cup,  half  finished,  flushed  with  joyous 

wine, 
The  sad  dregs  at  its  bottom  thou  didst  never 

reach ; 

Thy  night  of  revels  had  no  morn's  repine, 
No  aching  heart,  no  long-regretted  speech. 

Thou  didst  not  live  the  ignomy  to  own 

Of  beauty  faded,  or  of  roses  fled ; 

Thy  cheeks,  they  paled  not,  ere   the   buds 

were  blown, 
Thou  wert  not  fairer  when  thou  lived,  than 

dead. 

Death  is  no  victor  thus  —  we  will  not  weep ! 
Thou  walk'st  in  other  paths  of  beauty  now, 

more  strange ; 

It  is  not  Death  we  call  this  thing,  but  Sleep ; 
No  parting  this,  but  Beauty's  secret  change. 


MY   WHITE   ROSE   AND   RED. 

So  you've  come  from  the  South,  have  you, 
darlings  ? 

And  slept  snug  as  mice  all  the  way  ? 
And  was  n't  it  cold  on  the  mountains, 

For  rosebud,  and  myrtle,  and  bay  ? 
And  she  packed  you  up  so  together, 

And  blessed  you,  and  kissed  you,  and  said, 
"  Keep  sweet  as  my  memory  for  him  is, 

My  darlings,  my  white  rose  and  red." 
And  what  did  she  tell  you  at  parting  ? 

Some  message  for  me,  I  know  well ; 
Some  praise  of  our  boy,  there,  God  bless  him  ! 

Some  words  of  our  sweet  little  Nell. 
And  the   dear  tiny  hands  of  the  children, 

Have  they  touched  your  petals  so  fair? 
O,  rosebuds,  you  're  happy  if  Helen 

But  kissed  you  one  moment,  when  there ! 
This  white  rose  shall  bloom  in  the  study, 

This  red  one  I  '11  wear  on  my  breast, 

106 


106          XY  WHITE  HOSE  AND  RED. 

O,  I  wonder  if  she  will  be  thinking 

How  often  your  petals  are  pressed  ? 
Did   she    tell   you    how    long   we  've    been 
married  ? 

Ten  years  —  't  is  another  year,  soon,  — 
And  though  we  've  had  snow  in  December, 

We  've  always  had  roses  in  June. 
How  far  it  is  here  from  San  Remo, 

The  gem  of  the  beautiful  sea ! 
But  you've  come  with  your  petals  all  fra 
grant 

With  incense,  from  her  unto  me. 
How  strange  it  all  is;  and  her  letter  — 

This  much  and  this  only  it  said : 
"  The  children  are  well  here,  and  happy, 

And  my  love 's  like    the    white   rose  and 

red." 
I  '11  write  her  no  letter  to-morrow, 

But  something  I  '11  send  her  instead  — 
Two   rose    leaves,  —  she  '11    guess    at    their 
meaning, 

One  each  from  the  white  rose  and  red. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

"  IT  is   six,"    the   swallows  twittered,  "  and 

you're  very  late  in  rising, 
If  you  really  think  of  rising  on  this  lovely 

morn  at  all; 
For  the  great  red  sun  is  peeping  over  wood 

and  hill  and  meadow, 

And  the  unmilked  cows  are  lowing  in  the 
dimly  lighted  stall." 

O,  ye  robins  and   ye    swallows,  thought   I, 

throwing  back  the  lattice, 
Ye   are    noisy,   joyous    fellows,   and    you 

waken  when  you  will; 

Then  I  saw  a  dainty  letter,  bound  in  ribbon- 
grass  and  clover, 

That  the  swallows  had  left  swinging  by 
the  narrow  window-sill. 


108  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

O,  the  dainty,  dainty  letter,  on  an  orange 

leaf,  or  lemon, 
Signed,  "  Your  friend,  the  Queen  of  Roses," 

writ  in  characters  of  dew, 
"  You  're  invited  to  the  garden,  there 's  a  good 

time  there  at  seven, 

And  a  place  beside  the  apple-tree  has  been 
reserved  for  you. 

"  There  '11  be  matings  there,  and  marriages, 

of  every  flower  and  blossom  : 
Cross   the   brook   behind   the    arbor,   and 

come  early,  if  you  can." 
O,  my  thoughts,  they  all   went    bounding, 

and  my  heart  leaped  in  my  bosom, 
"And  how  sweetly  she  composes,"  I  re 
flected  as  I  ran. 

There  she  sat,  the  Queen  of  Roses,  with  her 

virgins  all  about  her, 
While    the    lilacs    and    the   apple-blooms 

seemed  waiting  her  command. 
O  how  lovely,  O  how  gracious,  she  did  smile 

on  each  new-comer ! 

O  how  sweet  she  kissed  the  lilies  as  she 
took  them  by  the  hand  ! 


fHE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS.  109 

Never  had  I  seen  her  fairer  than  she  was  this 

happy  morning, 
Never  knew  her  breath  delicious,  half  so 

boundless,  half  so  rare  ; 
Oh  !   she  seemed  a  thing  of  heaven,  with  the 

dew  upon  her  bosom, 

And  I  wished  I  were  some  daffodil,  that  I 
might  kiss  it  there. 

All  at  once  the  grass  rows  parted,  and  th€ 

sweetest  notes  were  sounded,  — 
There  was  music,  there  was  odor,  there  was 

loving,  in  the  air  ; 
And   a   hundred  joyous   gallants,   robed   in 

holiday  apparel, 

Danced  beneath  the    lilac-bushes  with  a 
hundred  maidens  fair. 

There  were  tulips,  proud  and  yellow,  with 

their  great  green  spears  beside  them  ; 
There  were   lilies  grandly  bowing  to  the 

Rose  Queen  as  they  came  ; 
There  were  daffodils  so  stately,  scenting  all 

the  air  of  heaven, 

Joyous    buds,   and    sleepy   poppies,   with 
their  banners  all  aflame. 


110  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

There  were  pansies  robed  in  purple,  marching 

o'er  the  apple-blossoms, 
And  the  foxgloves  with  their  pages  tripped 

coquettishly  along ; 
And   the    violets   and   the  daisies,  in   their 

bonnets  blue  and  yellow, 
Joined  the  marching  and  parading  of  th' 
innumerable  throng. 

All  at  once  the  dandelion  blew  three  notes 

upon  his  trumpet : 

"Choose  ye  partners  for  the  dancing,  gal 
lant  knights  and  ladies  fair ! " 
And  the  honeysuckle  curtsied  to  the  young 

sweet-breathed  clematis, 
And  remarked  upon  the  sweetness  of  the 
blossoms  in  her  hair. 

"  We  're  the  tallest,"  said  the  tuberose  to  the 

iris  standing  nearest, 
"And  suppose   that    now,  for  instance,  1 

should  offer  you  my  heart  ?  " 
"  O,  how    sudden  !  "     cried    the   sly  thing  •, 

"  I  'm  really  quite  embarrassed,  — 
Unexpected,  but  pray  do  it,  just  to  give 
the  rest  a  start." 


/HE  MARRIAGE  Off  THE  FLOWERS.  Ill 

Then  a  daisy  kissed  a  pansy,  with  its  jacket 

brown  and  yellow, 
And  a  crocus  led  a  thistle  to  a  seat  beside 

the  rose  ; 
And   the  Maybells   grouped   together,  close 

beside  the  lady-slipper, 
And  commented  on  her  beauty,  and  the 
splendor  of  her  clothes. 

"  O,    a   market   this    for   beauty ! "    said     a 

jasmine,  gently  clinging 
To  the  strong  arm  of  an  orange,  as  a  glance 

on  him  she  threw  ; 
"Why,  you  scarcely  would  believe  it,  bu 

I  've  had  this  very  morning 
Twenty  offers,  and  declined  them  just  to 
promenade  with  you." 

So,  in   groupings,   or  in    couples,   led   eacli 

knight  some  gentle  lady, 
Led   some  fair  companion  blushing,  past 

the  windows  fresh  and  green, 
And  the  Sweet  Rose  gave  her  blessing,  and 

a  kiss  at  times,  it  may  be, 
To  the  fairest  brides  and  sweetest  mortals 
eye  hath  ever  seen. 


112  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

Then   again    the   grass   it    parted,    and    the 

sunshine  it  grew  brighter, 
Till  it  seemed  as  if  the  curtains  of  high 

heaven  were  withdrawn, 
And  each  flower  and  bud  and  blossom  pressed 

some  fair  one  to  its  bosom, 
As  the  bannered  train  danced  gayly  'twixl 
the  windows  on  the  lawn. 

O,    the   muskrose  was    so  stately!    and  so 

stately  was  the  Queen  Rose  ! 
And  how  sweetly  smiled  she  on  me,  as  she 

whispered  in  my  ear : 
"  Come  again !  you  know  you're  welcome  ! 

come  again,  dear,  for,  it  may  be 
That  our  baby  buds  and  blossoms  will  be 
christened  here  next  year." 


ROOM  FOR   THE   ANGELS. 

FAR  away  by  the  Indus  River, 

AVhere  the  mornings  are  gold  and  red, 

The  mourners  walk  together, 

And  bury  their  silent  dead, 

In  couples  and  in  silence, — 

But  ever  a  place  ahead 

Is  left  unfilled  and  honored, 

As  that  where  the  angels  tread. 

'T  is  a  fancy,  old  as  their  river, 
That,  whenever  they  bury  their  dead, 
The  noise  of  wings  is  near  them, 
And  light  forms  marching  ahead,  — 
So  ever  before  the  mourners, 
And  close  to  the  pall  and  plume, 
'T  is  a  beautiful  heathen  custom 
To  make  for  the  angels  room. 

113 


114          ROOM  FOR  THE 

I've  thought  if  some,  not  heathen, 
Would  make,  in  their  worldly  care, 
Just  room  in  their  hearts  for  angels, 
They  would  sometimes  find  them  there. 
If  but  in  some  nook  or  corner, 
Filled  up  with  the  smallest  things, 
'T  were  a  joy  to  be  sometimes  hearing 
The  rustle  of  angels'  wings. 


IF  YOU  WANT  A  KISS,  WHY,  TAKE  IT. 

THERE  's  a  jolly  Saxon  proverb, 

That  is  pretty  much  like  this  — 
A  man  is  half  in  heaven, 

When  he  has  a  woman's  kiss. 
But  there  's  danger  in  delaying, 

And  the  sweetness  may  forsake  it ; 
So  I  tell  you,  bashful  lover, 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Never  let  another  fellow 

Steal  a  march  on  you  in  this, 
Never  let  a  laughing  maiden 

See  you  spoiling  for  a  kiss : 
There 's  a  royal  way  to  kissing, 

And  the  jolly  ones  who  make  it, 
Have  a  motto  that  is  winning  — 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Any  fool  may  face  a  cannon, 
Any  booby  wear  a  crown  ; 

115 


116    IF  YOU  WANT  A  KISS,  WHY,  TAKE  IT. 

But  a  man  must  win  a  woman, 
If  he  'd  have  her  for  his  own.  — 

Would  you  have  the  golden  apple, 
You  must  find  the  tree  and  shake  it ; 

If  the  thing  is  worth  the  having, 
And  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Who  would  burn  upon  a  desert, 

With  a  forest  smiling  by  ? 
Who  would  give  his  sunny  summer 

For  a  bleak  and  wintry  sky  ? 
O,  I  tell  you  there 's  a  magic, 

And  you  cannot,  cannot  break  it, 
For  the  sweetest  part  of  loving 

Is  to  want  a  kiss  and  take  it. 


THE   MOWING. 

THE  clock  has  struck  six, 

And  the  morning  is  fair, 
While  the  east  in  red  splendor  is  glowing  ; 
There  is  dew  on  the  grass,  and  a  song  in  the  air, 

Let  us  up  and  be  off  to  the  mowing. 

Wouldst  know  why  I  wait, 

Ere  the  sunlight  has  crept 
O'er  the  fields  where  the  daisies  are  growing  ? 
Why  all  night  I  've  kept  my  own  vigils,  nor 
slept  ? 

'T  is  to-day  is  the  day  of  the  mowing. 

This  day  and  this  hour 
Maud  has  promised  to  tell 
What  the  blush  on  her  cheek  was  half  show 
ing*  — 
If  she  wait  at  the  lane,  I  'm  to  know  all  is 

well, 

And   there  '11   be   a   good    time   at  tho 
mowing. 

117 


118  THE  MOWING. 

Maud's  mother  has  said, 

And  I  '11  never  deny, 

That  a  girl's  heart  there  can  be  no  knowing 
Oh !     I  care  not  to  live,  and  I  rather  would 
die, 

If  Maud  does  not  come  to  the  mowing. 

What  is  it  I  see  ? 
'T  is  a  sheen  of  brown  hair, 
In  the  lane  where  the  poppies  are  blowing. 
Thank  God!  it  is  Maud  —  she  is  waiting  me 

there, 

And   there  '11    be    a   good    time  at  the 
mowing. 

Six  years  have  passed  by, 
And  I  freely  declare 

That  I  scarcely  have  noticed  their  going ; 
Sweet  Maud  is  my  wife,  with  her  sheen  of 
brown  hair  — 

we  had  a  good  time  at  the  mowing. 


JAMIE'S  COMING  O'ER  THE  MOOR. 

JAMIE  's  coming  o'er  the  moor, 

Heaven  smile,  and  good  betide  him ! 

I  am  rich  and  Jamie  's  poor, 
But  I  love  no  one  beside  him. 

Jamie,  Jamie,  all  the  day,  — 

I  am  thinking  only  of  him  ; 
June  would  not  be  June  alway, 

If  I  did  not  see  and  love  him. 

Twelve  sweet  months  ago  we  met. 

Twelve  sweet  moons  have  been  the  token, 
Break,  my  heart,  or  else  forget 

Jamie  yet  no  word  hath  spoken. 

List !  't  is  Jamie's  voice  I  hear, 
One  sweet  voice  of  all  the  many. 

I  shall  have  no  longer  fear,  — 

Jamie  cries,  "  I  love  you,  Jeannie  ! " 

119 


120  JAMIE'S  COMING  O'EIt  THE  MOOJt. 

Jamie  comes  across  the  moor, 

Heaven  smile,  and  love  betide  him ; 

Neither  I  nor  Jamie  's  poor, 

When  I  love  no  one  beside  him. 


MAID   AND    BUTTERFLY. 

(From  the  German.) 

A  MAIDEN  idly  wandered 

Through  wood  and  cool  retreat, 
And  as  she  stopped  to  gather 

A  nosegay  from  the  heather, 
A  butterfly  passed  by  her, 

And  kissed  her  lips  so  sweet. 

"  O  !  pardon,"  said  the  rover, 
"  O !  pardon,  maiden  fair, 

I  sought  amid  the  flowers 
The  honey  that  is  ours, 

And  took  your  red  lips  blooming 
For  roses  growing  there." 

"  For  this  time  said  the  maiden, 
Forgiveness  —  it  is  by  ; 

But  I  must  beg  to  mention, 
And  press  to  your  attention, 

These  roses  are  not  blooming, 
every  butterfly." 


O,  HOW   SHALL  I   SING   TO  MY 
FAIR   ONE? 

O,  HOW  shall  I  sing  to  my  fair  one  ? 

O,  how  tune  my  harp  to  the  best  ? 
Sweet  south-winds,  ye  breathed  on  the  rarest ; 

Ye  knew  not  your  treasure,  O  West, 
Wake,  wake,  ye  red  roses,  half  sleeping  — 

Know  ye  that  a  fairer  is  there  ? 
O  primroses,  primroses  weeping ! 

Hast  seen  her  —  my  own  one,  so  fair  ? 

O  morning,  rejoice  in  my  gladness ! 

And  breathe  on  my  song  but  a  tone : 
She  will  hear  —  she  will  hear  it — and  answer, 

And  think  the  sweet  music  my  own. 
O  sunlight,  that  gladdens  the  hillside, 

O  rainbows,  that  die  in  the  sea  — 
Thou  lendest  the  robes  of  thy  beauty, 

But  think  not  thou  'rt  fairer  than  she. 

123 


0,  HOW  SHALL  I  SltfG?  123 

O  seas !   be  ye  glad  in  my  gladness ! 

And  hills,  let  me  never  in  vain 
Call  out  to  thy  heart  for  an  echo, 

Some  sound  that  resembles  her  name. 
Stars  brightly  shine,  bright  on  my  treasure, 

And  tell  what  ye  dare  not  conceal  — 
O  winds,  help  my  harp  to  some  measure, 

To  words  that  shall  speak  what  I  feel. 


UNDER  THE  KOSE. 

SHE  is  not  dead  we  love, 

She  still  is  here  ; 
Cross  her  white  hands  above 

Heart  true  and  dear. 
With  her  new  senses  born, 

All  things  are  fair ; 
Brighter  the  stars  at  morn, 

Sweeter  the  air. 

Bloom,  rose,  yellow  rose, 

White  rose,  for  her  ; 
Scent  every  air  that  blows, 

Sweet  balm  and  fir. 
Song-birds,  singing  still, 

Sing  the  old  song  ; 
Thrush,  lark,  and  whippoorwill, 

Sweet  notes  prolong. 

Shine,  mornings,  sweet  and  fair — 


Shine  as  ye  shone  ; 

134 


THE  ROSE.  125 

She  breathes  your  scented  air, 

Though  she  be  gone. 
She  sees  the  roses  born 

With  her  new  e}res  ; 
She  sees  the  light  of  morn 

Burst  in  the  skies. 

Speak,  friends,  in  love  of  her — 

Speak,  she  is  near  ; 
What  though  no  cloud  may  stir? 

Still  she  will  hear ; 
Speak  as  ye  spake  before, 

Kindly  and  true  ; 
There's  but  an  open  door 

'Twixt  her  and  you. 

What  though  her  body  rest 

Under  the  sod  ? 
He  knoweth  what  is  best — 

Trust  her  to  God. 
Under  the  roses  there, 

White  rose  and  red, 
She  breathes  the  sweeter  air; 

She  is  not  dead. 


126  UNDER  THE  ROSE. 

She  is  not  dead  we  love, 

She  still  is  here  ; 
Cross  her  white  hands  above 

Heart  true  and  dear. 
Pray,  friends,  that  when  for  you 

Life,  too,  shall  close, 
You  seem  as  kind  and  true, 

Under  the  rose. 


O  MAIDEN,  SO  SLENDER  AND  FAIR. 

O  MAIDEN,  so  slender  and  fair, 

And  straight  as  the  reeds  by  the  sea : 

The  rose  in  thy  beautiful  hair 
Is  more  than  a  rose  unto  me. 

Last  night,  when  the  stars  were  aglow, 
We  walked  on  the  terrace,  and  then 

You  whispered  this  night  I  should  know 
If  I  were  most  blessed  of  men. 

How  queenly  you  look,  and  how  rare  ! 

My  heart  is  ill-trained,  and  I  can 
But  look  at  that  rose  in  your  hair, 

And  curse  every  daughter  of  man. 

Walk  down  the  bright  aisles  of  the  hall, 
So  tall  and  so  stately,  —  perchance 

Your  eyes  may  not  meet  mine  at  all, 
But  I  shall  see  you  in  the  dance. 

127 


128    0  MAIDEN,  SO  SLENDER  AND  FAIR. 

And  if,  when  he  touches  your  hand, 
My  dagger  shall  leap  from  my  side, 

Ah !  better  the  rage  of  the  damned 
Than  the  wrath  of  a  lover  denied. 

Oh  !  never  you  dreamed  I  was  near, 
To-day,  when  you  met  at  the  train  — 

'T  was  little,  I  grant,  I  could  hear, 
But  that  little 's  undoing  my  brain. 

I  saw  him  reach  over  and  break 

This  very  same  rose  that  you  wear,  — 

"  To-night,  at  the  ball,  for  my  sake," 

Were  the  words  that  he  uttered,  I  swear. 

What  ?  waited  to  see  would  he  kiss 

The  lips  I  had  dreamed  would  be  mine,  - 

Enough  !  there  is  murder  in  this ! 
And  the  rose  in  your  hair  is  the  sign. 

Yes,  maiden,  walk  down  the  bright  aisle, 
'T  is  gay  here  and  light  as  the  moon, 

His  eyes  will  keep  time  with  your  smile, 
And  his  feet  with  the  flute  and  bassoon. 


0  MAIDEN,  SO  SLENDER  AND  FAIR.  129 

By  Heaven !  they  're  coming  this  way  ; 

And  dares  she  to  smile  on  me  still? 
Your  brother  !  —  what  is  it  you  say  ? 

Your  brother  — just  lack  from  Brazil ! 

Your  pardon !  this  room  has  no  air  — 
Come,  walk  on  the  terrace  and  then  — 

Ah !  sweet  is  that  rose  in  your  hair, 
And  I  'ni  the  most  blessed  of  men. 


IN  LIBBY. 

I  HEAR  the  music  of  the  bells 
Float  out  upon  the  summer  air  — 

Now,  like  the  sea  their  chorus  swells, 
Now,  faintly,  as  the  breath  of  prayer ; 

Yet  lingering  still  as  if  to  bless 
My  heart  within  its  loneliness. 

The  tide  comes  up  from  out  the  bay, 

The  sails  ride  to  and  fro  ; 
I  stand  and  watch  them  all  the  day, 

Out  on  the  stream  below ; 
But  bending  sail,  nor  flowing  sea, 

Brings  one  sweet  word  of  joy  to  me. 


is*. 


MY   VIOLET. 

SHE  is  not  here,  my  violet, 
My  Maybell  sweet,  my  mignonette. 
And  so  my  eyes  are  ofteu  wet,  — 
She  is  not  here,  my  violet. 

But  over  there,  where  ever  swells 
Each  bud  and  bloom  in  heavenly  dells, 
Like  nightingale  she  sings  and  tells 
Our  love  to  the  sweet  asphodels. 

And  where  the  sweet  stars  ever  shine 
On  jasper  seas  and  hills  divine, 
I  '11  know  her  by  love's  constant  sign, 
And  see  her  still  and  call  her  mine. 

I  hear  her  to  the  blossoms  hum  : 

"  In  the  bright  days,  he,  too,  will  come  ;  " 

And  so  with  eager  lips,  half  dumb, 

I  only  wait  that  I  may  come. 

131 


132  MY  VIOLET. 

It  little  matters  where  I  be 

For  a  few  years,  on  lake  or  lea, 

For  through  the  gates  ajar  I  see 

My  brown-haired  maid  still  waiting  me. 

And  sometime  when  the  stars  are  set, 
And  sweet  Maybells  with  dews  are  wet, 
I  '11  close  my  eyes  and  go  and  get 
My  brown-haired  love,  my  violet. 


THERE   IS   A   MAIDEN   WHOM   I 
KNOW. 

THERE  is  a  maiden  whom  I  know, 
Some  sweet  six  summers  old  or  so  ; 
And  to  my  chair  she  climbs  to  throw 
Her  soft  arms  round  me  lovingly. 

There  is  no  maiden  in  the  town 
With  lips  so  red,  or  hair  so  brown, 
Or  cheeks  so  like  the  thistle's  down, 
Nor  one  who  is  so  loving  me. 

Her  eyes  —  bright  eyes  —  I  know  I  dare 
To  say  they  are  more  sweetly  rare 
Than  any  others  ever  were  — 
And  shine  on  me  so  lovingly. 

Bright  eyes,  brown  hair,  and  red  lips  say 
A  thousand  sweet  things  every  day, 
But  most,  in  her  dear  childish  way, 
How  very  much  she  's  loving  me. 

133 


134  THERE  IS  A  MAIDEN. 

Perhaps  you  know  some  little  miss, 
So  very  sweet  and  like  to  this, 
Whom  every  day  you  fondly  kiss 
And  press  to  you  so  lovingly  ? 

It  little  matters  what  her  name  — 
If  Helen,  Kate,  or  Maud,  or  Mame, 
Sweet  child  —  dear  one  —  'tis  all  the  same, 
Press  her  and  kiss  her  lovingly. 


A  SONNET  OF  LOVE. 

Who  am  I?    Master  of  the  human  soul, 
Whom  never  any  mortal  yet  defied, 
Youth  nor  old  age,  bridegroom  nor  bride. 

Born  of  the  gods,  all  beauty  is  my  dole; 

Lips  smile,  eyes  meet;  that  instant  I  control 
Soul,  heart  and  being.     There,  beside 
Him  I  have  conquered,  I  abide; — 

His  hell  or  paradise,  I  am  the  whole. 

He  doth  not  will  it  whom  my  arrow  stings 

To  sudden  joy,  or  still  more  sudden  pain; 
Spite  of  himself,  Love's  sweet  or  bitter  things 

Evade  he  cannot, — and,  one  smile  to  gain, 
Beyond  the  grave  he'd  follow  on  swift  wings, 

For  I  am  that  which  death  hath  never  slain. 


135 


THE  BEAUTY  ROSE. 

I  SAW  a  rose  beside  the  garden  lawn, 
A  Beauty  Rose  on  its  enchanted  throne; 

With  odorous  breath  it  welcomed  in  the  dawn, 
While  on  its  breast  the  night's  sweet  jewels 
shone. 

Last  night  the  moon  held  it  in  soft  embrace, 
And,  loverlike,  now  hides  beyond  yon  hill. 

O  Beauty  Rose,  the  blushes  on  thy  face 

Were  born  of  love,  and  make  thee  lovelier  still. 

Oh!  that  such  blush  should  perish  soon,  I  said, 
And  then  the  Beauty  Rose  made  me  reply: 

"Think  thou  on  this:  the  moon  that  seems  to 

fade 
Shines  on  as  bright  within  some  other  sky. 

We  change  and  live;  make  thou  no  heart-repine. 
No  rose  were  sweet  were  it  forever  thine." 


136 


I  HEAR  THE  SEA. 

WHEN  night  has  let  her  curtain  down 
And  darkness  shuts  the  world  from  me, 

In   yonder   little   fisher   town 
I  lie  and  listen  to  the  sea. 

My  windows  open  to  the  strand, 
I  hear  the  sounding  waters  roll; 

They  beat  the  rocks,  they  wash  the  sand, 
Their  breakers  cross  the  lighthouse  mole. 

And  all  the  night,  against  the  shore, 
I  hear  their  beat,  but  have  no  fear, 

'Tis  not  alone  the  ocean's  roar, 
It  is  the  voice  of  God  I  hear. 

Forever  thus,  O  sounding  sea! 

The  years  perpetual  come  and  go; 
Across  life's  bar  they  call  to  me, 

As  constant  as  the  ocean's  flow. 

And  so  it  is  in  yonder  town, 

When  darkness  falls  across  the  lea, 

Where  fisher  folk  go  up  and  down, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  the  sea. 


137 


THE  SONG  OF  IOWA. 

Air:  "My  Maryland." 

You  ask  what  land  I  love  the  best, 

Iowa,  'tis   Iowa, 
The  fairest  State  of  all  the  West, 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 

From  yonder  Mississippi's  stream 
To  where  Missouri's  waters  gleam, 
O !  fair  it  is  as  poet's  dream, 

Iowa,  in  Iowa. 

See  yonder  fields  of  tasseled  corn, 

Iowa,  in  Iowa, 
Where  plenty  fills  her  golden  horn, 

Iowa,  in  Iowa. 

See  how  her  wondrous  prairies  shine 
To  yonder  sunset's  purpling  line, 
O!  happy  land,  O!  land  of  mine, 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 

And  she  has  maids  whose  laughing  eyes, 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa, 
To  him  who  loves  were  Paradise, 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 

O!  happiest  fate  that  e'er  was  known, 
Such  eyes  to  shine  for  one  alone, 


138 


THE  SONG  OF  IOWA  139 

To   call   such  beauty   all   his  own, 
Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 

Go  read  the  story  of  thy  past, 

Iowa,   O !   Iowa, 
What  glorious  deeds,  what  fame  thou  hast ! 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 

So  long  as  time's  great  cycle  runs, 
Or  nations  weep  their  fallen  ones, 
Thou'lt  not  forget  thy  patriot  sons, 

Iowa,  O!  Iowa. 


REGRET. 

Welcome,  robin,  you  have  come! 

Look,  the  violets  bloom  anew, 
And  I  hear  the  pheasants  drum — 

Bird  and  blossom  welcome  you. 

Happy  robin,  many  a  day 

We  had  missed  you  on  the  lawn, 

When  the  skies  were  cold  and  gray, 
When  the  forest  leaves  were  gone. 

Robin,  robin,  since  you  left 

Many  a  change  has  crossed  us  here- 
Wood  and  field  of  flowers  bereft, 

Sad  the  winter  seemed  and  drear. 

I,  too,  happy  bird,  have  known 

Change  and  sorrow,  pain  and  grief ; 
Not  for  me  the  flowers  have  blown — • 
Not  for  me  the  coming  leaf. 


140 


REGRET 

Seek'st  them,  robin,  still  a  hand, 
Or  a  voice  thou  once  didst  hear? 

One  that  sweetly  used  to. stand 
Calling,  loving  thee,  last  year  ? 

Robin,  robin,  she  is  dead! 

She  that  was  so  kind  and  true ; 
Violets  at  her  feet  and  head — 

She  will  hear  no  song  from  you. 

'Neath  yon  little  mound  so  near, 
In  her  still  and  narrow  bed, 

She  who  loved  you  so  last  year, 
She  is  lying  cold  and  dead. 

Still,  sweet  robin,  every  spring, 
When  the  violets  deck  the  land, 

Sing  the  song  you  used  to  sing — 
You  and  I  will  understand. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

So  the  guest  of  honor's  left  us,  and  the  bard 

of  humor's  dead! 
Ah,  the  good  things  that  he  left  us!  and  the 

kind  things   that  he  said! 
Is   it   true   his   chair   is   empty,   is   it   true   the 

voice  is  still 
That  could  fill  our  hearts  with  rapture  or  bring 

tear-drops  at  its  will? 

Left  us  when  the  lights  were  burning,  and  the 

toasts  were  just  begun, 
When  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  him,  as  the 

sunflower  to  the  sun! 
What  though  eighty  years  he'd  waited — or  the 

rest  had  gone  ahead ! 
His  "last  leaf"  had  never  faded,  all  his  roses 

still  were  red! 

And  the  odor  of  his  lilies,  filled  they  not  the 

blessed  room? 
And  the  garden  of  his  fancy,  was  it  not  this 

day    abloom  ? 
He  whose  words  were  like  to  music  that  had 

thrilled  us  oft  and  long, 
Who  had  warmed  us  with  the  wine  of  thought. 

the  red  grape  of  his  song ; 
142 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  143 

Will  he  never,  never  smile  again  whose  smile 

made   strangers   kin ; 
He    whose    verse    was   like    the    foaming   wine 

that  newly  is  poured  in? 
Will  he  never  touch  the  harp  again  that  made 

us  all  so  glad? 
One  single  touch  upon  its  chords  had  made  us 

light  or  sad! 

Is  it  true  he  has  departed?    Let  us  fill  the  cup 

to  him — 
To  the  poet  over  yonder — where  the  stars  are 

never  dim ; 
To  the  bard  who  saw  God's  sunshine  from  the 

heights  to  which  he  grew, 
And  who  held  the  rifting  clouds  apart  that  we 

might  see  it  too. 

No,  we  will  not  stand  lamenting;  keep  the  lights 

up  as  they  were! 
He  who  loved  us  still  is  with  us ;  take  the  crape 

from  off  his  chair; 
He  is  only  resting  yonder  till  his  harp  is  newly 

strung 
In  the  new  dawn  that  is  lighting,  to  the  new 

song  that  is  sung. 


BEAUTIFUL  DEATH. 

BEAUTIFUL  death — that  is  what  it  is ; 

And  that  very  day  I  had  told  you  so 
When  you  stooped  to  give  me  a  one  last  kiss 

And  your  eyes  filled  up.     Oh!  you  did  not 

know 
How  sweet  and  sudden  a  dream  was  mine, — 

Without  a  pain,  or  a  pang,  at  the  last, 
One  single  sip  of  the  nectared  wine, 

And  out  of  the  there  to  the  here  I  passed. 

Still  for  a  little  the  clouds  were  cleft, 

And  there  behind  me,  I  still  could  see 
The  flowers,  the  room,  and  the  friends  I  left, 

And  the  beautiful  body  God  gave  to  me. 
And  just  a  moment  I  waved  my  hand 

From  the  rosy  heights  of  the  newer  dawn, 
To  tell  you,  dear — did  you  understand — 

That  I  was  not  dead,  but  was  living  cm. 

Now  there  is  nothing  of  pain  or  pride; 

Rapturous  beings  are  everywhere, 
And  the  dear,  dear  dead  who  have  never  died, 

They  are  just  the  same  as  they  were  back 

there. 
The  very  mountains  arid  lakes  you  see, 

O!  all  that  gladdens  your  mortal  eyes 
Are  brighter  a  thousand  fold  to  me, 

For  I  see  them,  dearest,  in  Paradise. 

144 


BEAUTIFUL  DEATH  145 

In  the  scented  grove,  when  the  night  is  near, 

And  the  pine  trees  murmur  a  low,  sweet  song, 
It  is  I  that  speak — do  you  sometimes  hear? 

That  you  stand  so  still,  and  you  stand  so  long  ? 
What  do  I  tell  you?    O,  this,  no  more; 

Beautiful  Death,  it  is  sweet,  so  sweet, 
Not  the  death  that  we  thought  before, 

But  the  miracle  death,  that  is  life  complete. 

Out  on  the  lawn  when  the  rose  is  red, 

And  its  breath  an  odorous  ecstasy, 
It  is  not  the  rose — it  is  I  instead — • 

When  you  kiss  the  rose  you  are  kissing  me. 
O,  I  often  speak  in  the  voice  of  things 

That  move  your  soul,  and  you  know  not 

why, 
In  the  evening  flute,  and  the  sound  of  strings, 

And  the  radiant  isles  of  a  summer  sky. 

When  the  nightingale  on  the  hedgerow  sings 

Till  the  very  trees  in  the  woods  rejoice, 
And  a  nameless  rapture  around  you  clings, 

It  is  I  who  speak  in  the  sweet  bird's  voice. 
Oh,  could  you  hear  me,  oh,  could  you  know, 

Oh,  could  you  breathe  of  this  joyous  land, 
You  would  long  for  the  Beatiful  Death,  and  go 

So  glad,  so  glad — could  you  understand. 


DAYBREAK  AT  APPOMATTOX. 

In  the  woods  of  Appomattox 

Lay   the   grand   Union   army, 
With  the  gray  coats  not  a  dozen  miles  away — 

All  night  we'd  been  fighting,  with  guns  and 

sabres  smiting, 
And  the  cannon  still  were  booming  at  the  day 

There  was  Sheridan,  the  rider, 

With  his  black-mouthed  cannon, 
And  his  twenty  thousand  troopers  so  bold, 

The  blue-coated  riders,  with  carbines  and  with 

Snyders, 
And  Custer,  with  his  locks  of  shining  gold. 

From  their  cities  we  had  chased  them, 

Till  their  hosts  all  were  flying. 
Would  they  turn  on  us?    We  heard  the  warning 

drum — 

At  dawn  of  the  morning  we  heard  the  drum 
mer's  warning, 
And  we  knew  that  the  fatal  hour  had  come. 

Would  they  yield,  then,  to  our  forces, 

All  the  fifty  thousand  rebels? 
"No!"  they  answered  to  our  challenge,  with  a 

yell, 

146 


DAYBREAK  AT  APPOMATTOX      147 

And  quick  came  the  battle,  the  muskets'  deadly 

rattle, 
O!  it  sounded  like  the  very  fiends  of  hell! 

Then  uprose  our  blue  battalions 

From  the  ground  that  they  lay  on, 
And    we   thundered    in    their    faces    storms    of 

lead; 
The  batteries  assembled,  and  the  whole  earth 

trembled, 
Till  rebellion  lay  there  gasping  with  the  dead. 

All  at  once  they  stopped  their  firing, 

All  at  once  there  was  silence, 
Then  we  saw  a  white  flag  flutter  to  the  pine, 

And  we  knew  by  the  token  their  armies  all 

were  broken, 
For  the  little  flag  that  fluttered  was  the  sign. 

Then  from  out  the  forest  slowly 

Rode  their  white-haired  leader, 
Past  our  blue  lines,  and  batteries  dark  and  grim ; 

We  all   stood  solemn  as  he   rode   down   the 

column, 
For  the  lost  cause  was  passing  there  in  him. 

With  his  sword  of  gold  bejeweled, 

And  his  coat  gold  embroidered, 
Down  the  column  riding,  haughty  and  alone, 
Like  a  proud  prince  he  bore  him,  though  he 

saw  our  flag  before  him, 

Saw  the  stars  and  stripes  that  'spite  of  treason 
shone. 


148  DAYBREAK  AT  APPOMATTOX 

"Here's  my  sword;  lo!  all  is  finished," 

And  he  stood  before  our  captain, 
In  his  simple  blouse  of  plain  old  army  blue; 
"It  is  dead,  all  we  sought  for,  the  cause  is 

lost  we  fought  for, 

Fort   and  gun   and   man    and   horse   belong   to 
you." 

Then  our  great  commander  answered, 

In  his  plain  and  simple  language, 
"Keep  the  sword  that  you  have  carried,  Robert 

Lee, 
And  the  good  steeds  that  bore  you;  behold, 

I  will  restore  you, 
Horse  and  rider  all  are  from  this  moment  free." 

Then  across  the  hills  the  sunlight 

Swept  afresh  upon  the  army, 
And  the  war-clouds  quickly  melted  all  away, 

And  we  heard  the  bells  ringing,  and  the  people 

all  singing 
For  the  peace  that  dawned  on  Appomattox  day. 

And  the  world  looked  on  in  wonder 

At  the  reconciliation, 
At  the  day-dawn  that  closed  the  cannon's  mouth, 

When  Grant  and  Lee  together  buried  hate  there 

forever, 
And  there  was  no  longer  any  North  or  South. 


THE  LARKS  OF  WAVELAND. 

Sweet  lark  whose  liquid  notes  I  heard 
Across  the  lanes  and  meadows  ring, 

I  had  not  thought  that  flute  or  bird 
Such  joy  to  any  heart  could  bring. 

Spell  bound  I  listened  to  the  strain, 
Forgetting  all  the  earth  but  thee 

And  that  dear  song  whose  one  refrain 
That  hour  was  heaven  itself  for  me. 

The  fragrant  meadow  grasses  lay 
In  windrows  scattered  all  along, 

And  wild  rose  blossoms  seemed  to  say 
They  too  were  gladdened  by  the  song. 

There  from  the  topmost  willow  bough 
Adown  the  lane  there  came  a  tide 

Of  song  so  sweet  it  seemed,  somehow, 
The  gates  of  heaven  had  opened  wide. 

And  I  had  listened  but  to  thee, 

When,  from  the  hedge-row,  sudden  came 
Still  other  bursts  of  melody; 

It  was  thy  mate  that  called  thy  name. 

149 


150  THE  LARKS  OF  WAVELAND 

From  tree  to  hedge-row  music  fell, 

Love  answering  Love  with  rapturous  sign; 

Oh,  it  must  be  a  joy  to  tell 

One's  love  in  language  such  as  thine. 

Beyond  the  evening's  scented  air, 
Through  sunset  islands  of  the  skies, 

The  happy  cloudlets  seemed  to  bear 
The  music  back  to  Paradise. 

What  though  I  wander  far  and  wide, 
To  lands  of  birds  with  lovelier  wing, 

Still  in  my  dreams  at  eventide 

I'll  hear  the  larks  of  Waveland  sing. 


VICKSBURG 

PART  I 

(Recited  by  the  author  at  the  dedication  of  the 
Iowa  monuments  on  the  Vicksburg  battlefield.) 

RUNNING  THE  BATTERIES. 

Would  you  like  to  know  how  the  thing  was  done, 
How  the  Vicksburg  batteries  all  were  run, 
Four  miles  of  sulphur,  and  roar  of  gun — 
That  Grant's  great  army  far  below 
Might  cross  the  river,  and  fight  the  foe? 

Not  a  single  boat  had  he  anywhere, 
Nor  barge,  nor  raft,  that  could  dare  to  try 
The  mighty  stream  that  was  rolling  by. 
And  between  his  troops  and  our  fleet  up  there 
Were  the  Vicksburg  batteries  everywhere — 
Four  miles  of  cannon  and  breastworks  strong 
Stretching  the  whole  dread  way  along. 

There  was  not  a  hill,  nor  a  hollow  then 
But  had  its  guns  and  its  hundred  men 
To  guard  the  river,  and  once,  they  say 


151 


152  VICKSBURG 

A  Federal  gunboat  tried  to  go 

From  the  fleet  above  to  the  troops  below — 

But  it  hailed  and  rained  and  thundered  so 

Of  cannon,  and  grapeshot  all  the  way, 

That  the  captain  said  to  his  dying  day — 

Whenever  the  talk  on  Vicksburg  fell — 

"He  traveled  that  night  four  miles  of  hell." 

Now  this  is  the  thing  we  had  to  try, 

We  who  were  soldiers,  not  sailors,  mark, 

To  run  three   Federal   steamboats   by 

The  river  batteries  in  the  dark. 

'Twas  in  Sixty-three,  and  an  April  night, 

Soft  and  cloudy,  and  half  in  sight 

Was  the  edge  of  the  moon,  just  going  down. 

Into  the  canebrakes  dark  and  brown, 

As  if  it  did  not  care  to  know 

What  thing  might  happen  that  night  below. 

Out  on  the  river  three  steamers  ride, 
Moored  on  the  breast  of  the  sweeping  tide. 
Lashed  to  the  side  of  each  steamer  lay 
River  barges  with  bales  of  hay, 
And  bales  of  cotton  that  soldiers  knew 
Never  a  cannon  had  yet  shot  through. 
In  the  half-lit  hold  of  each  waiting  ship 
Not  a  sound  is  heard  from  human  lip, 
Yet  a  dozen  soldiers  there  grimly  stand — 
And  they  know  the  work  they  have  in  hand 
Theirs,  when  bellows  the  cannonade, 
And  holes  in  the  sides  of  the  ship  are  made, 


VICKSBURG  153 

With  boards,  and  cotton,  and  gunny  sack 
To  keep  the  rush  of  the  waters  back; 
Theirs,  no  matter  if  all  should  drown, 
To  keep  the  vessels  from  going  down — 
For  all  Grant's  army  will  hold  its  breath 
Till   the    forts   are   passed  or  they  meet   their 
death. 

'Tis  ten  o'clock  by  the  watch  and  more — 
Sudden,  a  lantern  swings  on  shore — 
'Tis  the  signal — "Start — lift  anchor,  men." 
And  a  hundred  hearts  beat  quicker  then, 
And  six  great  gunboats  pass  ahead — 
They  will  give  the  batteries  lead  for  lead. 

Ten  and  a  half — the  moment  nears, 
No  sound  of  sail,  or  spars — 
The   listening  pilot  almost  hears 
The  music  of  the  stars. 

"Lift  anchor,  men — the  silent  few 
Down  the  dark  river  glide — 
God  help  them  now,  as  swift  into 
The  lane  of  death  they  ride. 
They  round  the  bend,  some  river  guard 
Has  heard  the  waters  plash, 
And  through  the  darkness  heavenward 
There  is  a  lightning's  flash. 
A  sudden  boom  across  our  path, 
A  sullen  sound  is  flung — 
And  we  have  waked  the  lion's  wrath, 
And  stirred  the  lion's  young. 


154  VICKSBURO 

It  was  only  a  gun  on  the  hills  we  heard, 

One  shot  only,  and  then  was  dumb, 

To  send  to  the  lower  batteries  word, 

The  foe,  the  terrible  foe  had  come. 

And  just  as  the  echo  had  died  away, 

There  was  such  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

The  midnight  seemed  to  be  turned  to  day, 

And  the  river  shone  as  if  all  on  flame. 

And  indeed  it  was,  for  on  either  side, 

Barns  and  houses  and  bonfires  burned, 

And  soon  in  the  conflagration  wide, 

They  saw  our  ships,  and  a  mighty  roar — 

Bellowed  after  us  in  our  flight — 

There  wasn't  a  nook  on  the  whole  east  shore 

But  had  a  battery  there  that  night. 

Thunder  and  lightning,  and  boom  on  boom ; 

Oh!  it  was  terrible  in  the  chase; 

Never  again  till  the  crack  of  doom 

Will  the  Mississippi  see  such  a  race. 

For  our  gunboats  answered  them  all  along — 

Spite  of  the  wounds  on  their  sloping  mail, 

And  spite  of  the  current  swift  and  strong 

They  let  them  feel  of  their  iron  hail. 

Two  hours  the  terrible  storm  goes  on 

With  one  of  our  boats  in  flames, 

And  one  of  our  barges  burned  and  gone. 

Another,  the  river  claims. 


VICKSBURG  155 

And  the  hull  of  one  of  our  boats  they  broke, 
But  we,  in  the  hold  below, 
We  heard  the  thunder  and  felt  the  stroke, 
And  checked  the  water's  flow. 

And  once  we  climbed  to  the  deck  o'erhead 
From  out  the  infernal  place, 
Where  we  hardly  heard  what  each  other  said 
Or  looked  in  each  other's  face. 

Only  a  moment !     Lord,  what  a  sight ! 
The  bravest  would  hold  his  breath — 
For  it  seemed  as  if  the  river  that  night 
Were  in  the  throes  of  death. 
Crash  follows  crash,  worst  follows  worst, 
Thunder  on  thunder  dire, 
As  if  some  meteor  had  burst 
And  set  the  world  on  fire. 

****** 

Two  hours — the  dangerous  deed  is  done; 

Just  as  the  dawn  is  by 

The  heroic  vessels,  every  one, 

Below  the  batteries  lie. 

A  shout,  a  cheer,  a  wild  huzzah, 

Quick  to  the  heavens  flew 

When  Grant  and  Sherman's  soldiers  saw 

The  boats  come  rounding  to. 


PART  II. 
WHERE  ARE  THEY  ALL  TODAY? 

Who  calls  it  forty  years  ago? 

To  me  'twas  yesterday 
We  ran  the  batteries  of  the  foe 
And  anchored  in  the  bay. 
A  thousand  cheers  our  bosoms  stirred, 

My  comrades  wept,  they  say, 
When  Grant  but  spoke  a  kindly  word ; 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

Red  shone  the  dawn,  and  there  in  line 

The  glorious  army  stood, 
And  ere  the  midnight  stars  shall  shine 

Is  ferried  o'er  the  flood. 
Where  yesternight  the  foemen  kept 

Their  bivouacs  by  the  way, 
Now  thirty  thousand  bluecoats  slept; 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

By  different  roads  our  columns  led, 

Where  e'er  we  tracked  a  foe, 
And,  listening  to  our  midnight  tread, 

They  waited  for  the  blow. 
By  day,  by  night,  we  marched  and  fought 

In  many  a  bloody  fray, 
And  many  a  grave  was  left  forgot — 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

156 


VICKSBURG  157 

Port  Gibson,   Raymond,  Jackson   fell, 
Great  was  the  southern  ire — 

At  Champion  Hills  a  taste  of  hell 
They  gave  us  with  their  fire. 

Two  hours,  I  saw  my  comrades  fall — 
Begrimed  in  death  they  lay, 

The  sulphurous  smoke  their  funeral  pall- 
Where  are  they  all  today? 

Two  hours  of  fire  and  tempest,  then 

The  foemen  yield  the  place — 
McPherson  and  McClernand's  men 

Are  dangerous  foes  to  face. 
They  yield,  for  Logan's  on  their  flank 

Who  never  lost  the  fray, 
Whose  sword  to  foeman  never  sank — 

Where's  Logan's  sword  today? 

And  Hovey's  pounding  on  their  left, 

And  Crocker's  hurrying  by, 
Fierce  the  assault,  their  line  is  cleft, 

What  can  they  do  but  fly? 
Beneath  the  soft  magnolia  trees 

There  the  five  thousand  lay, 
Hands  touching  hands,  knees  touching  knees, 

Where  are  they  all  today? 


158  VICKSBURG 

Yet  wait,  we  struggle  for  the  bridge 

Behind  the  flying  foe, 
There  from  the  low  and  wooded  ridge 

The    flags    of    Lawler   go. 
A  shout,  a  cheer,  men  may  not  dream 

Of  such  a  charge  again ; 
But  where  are  they  who  held  the  stream. 

And  where  are  Lawler's  men? 

That  very  day  with  flags  unfurled 

We  circled  Vicksburg  town, 
And  forty  days  and  nights  we  hurled 

Death's  missiles  up  and  down. 
By  heaven !  it  was  a  sight,  at  last, 

The  host  of  Blue  and  Gray, 
The  cannon's  roar,  the  muskets'  blast, 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

Filled  with  the  pride  of  victories  by 

To  storm  the  works  we  willed, 
Two  times  the  awful  thing  we  try, 

Our  dead  their  ditches  filled. 
Two  times  they  hurled  us  back,  our  men 

Writhing  and  wounded  lay; 
Brave  souls  who  charged  on  Vicksburg  then, 

Where  are  they  all  today? 


VICK8BURG  159 

Where  are  the  Hawkeye  boys  who  fell 

In  that  dread  holocaust, 
When  cannon  burst  like  blasts  of  hell 

And  all  the  day  was  lost? 
One  flag,  a  little  moment  shone 

Above  the  mem  in  gray. 
Twas  theirs,  'twas  theirs — though  all  alone. 

Where  is  that  flag  today? 

That  very  hour  our  circling  lines 

The   wondrous   siege  began, 
And  burrowed  pits  and  saps  and  mines 

Around  the  city  ran. 
Like  tigers  fighting  for  their  young 

The  maddened  men  at  bay 
Across  our  road  their  bravest  flung — 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

To  caves  and  hollows  of  the  hills 

Their  wives  and  children  flew, 
Enduring  all  war's  hideous  ills, 

They  were  heroic  too. 
Courageous  souls,  war's  thunder  tone 

And  lightnings  'round  them  play, 
And  bursting  shells  like  meteors  shone — 

Where  are  they  all  today? 


160  VIQK8BURG 

The  roses  on  the  garden  walls 

A  thousand  odors  fling, 
The  blackbird  to  the  throstle  calls 

And  still  our  bullets  sing. 
The  little  children,  scared  at  first, 

Along  the  commons  play, 
While  Porter's  shells  around  them  burst — 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

The  laurel  and  magnolias  bloom 

In  colors  white  and  gay, 
Yet  Grant  and  Sherman's  cannon  boom, 

'Tis  Grant  and  Sherman's  way. 
By  saps  and  mines  we  near  the  town, 

Defend  it  as  they  may, 
Their  flags  will  soon  be  falling  down — 

Where  are  their  flags  today? 

One  morning  thirty  thousand  men 

Laid  down  their  arms  and  wept, 
Because  they  ne'er  would  see  again 

The  hills  their  valor  kept. 
Our  scanty  bread  with  them  we  shared, 

As  bravest  soldiers  may, 
They  cheered  us,  who  but  now  had  dared, 

Where  are  they  all  today? 


VICKSBURa  161 

The  forts  are  ours,  the  mighty  stream 

Unvexed  flows  to  the  main, 
A  thousand  miles  our  banners  gleam, 

We've  cut  the  South  in  twain. 
Where  are  the  victors,  where  the  foe — 

Where  are  the  Blue  and  Gray, 
Ihe  hero  souls  of  years  ago — 

Where  are  they  all  today? 

Build  to  our  own  the  marble  bust 

Where  the  great  river  laves 
Yon  hill  that  holds  their  honored  dust — • 

Their  twenty  thousand  graves. 
The  years  go  on,  the  living  still, 

If  Blue  coat,  or  if  Gray, 
May  ask  the  mounds  on  yonder  hill, 

Where  are  they  all  today? 


ROSE  AND  ASHES 

These  were  the  roses,  red  and  white, 
,     I  sent  to  her  in  the  long  ago; 
Like  them,  Love  changed,  in  a  little  night, 
And  she  sent  them  back,  and  their  ribboned 
bow. 

These  are  the  roses,  white  and  red, 

I  sent  to  her  in  the  long  ago ; 
Dead,  and  ashes;  she,  too,  is  dead, 

Ashes  all,  and  as   white  as  snow. 

Letters,  promises — false  or  fair — 

Likewise  ashes,  and  all  forgot; 
No  one  living  will  know  or  care 

If  she  loved  me,  or  loved  me  not. 

Sweet  the  kisses  she  gave  to  me, 
Every  sigh  that  her  bosom  stirred; 

Blind  was  I,  and  I  could  not  see, 
Deaf  was  I,  and  I  never  heard. 

Loved  or  no;  it  is  all  one  now, 
Meetings,  kisses,  are  all  forgot — 

162 


ROSE  AND  ASHES  163 

Cheeks  of  roses  and  smooth,  young  brow, 
Loved  she  little,  or  loved  she  not. 

Rose,  and  ashes,  and  all,  is  dead, 

Rose,  and  promise,  and  loves  that  were, 

Yet  I  know  that  her  name  is  wed 
To  the  songs  that  I  wrote  for  her. 

Other  lovers  my  songs  will  see, 

Whether  I  will  it,  or  will  it  no — 
She  will  live,  but  alas!  for  me, 

Rose  and  ashes  of  long  ago. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  DIEGO 

I  hear  the  bells,  the  mission  bells 

Of  San  Diego  town ; 
Across  the  bay  the  echo  swells, 

And  over  the  hills  so  brown, 
And  into  the  valley  and  canyons  deep, 

When  the  sun  is  going  down. 

I  think  I  hear  the  friars  still, 

The  saintly  priests  of  Spain, 
Come  down  the  valley  and  round  the  hill, 

From  the  mission  walls  again; 
And  I  hear  them  chant  as  they  used  to  chant, 
To  the  mission  bells'  refrain. 

I  see  the  palm  tree's  stately  head 

Beside  the  mission  wall, 
The  bending  stream  by  mountains  fed, 

The  canyon  deep,  the  waterfall, 
And  hill,  and  palm,  and  valley  fair, 

And  God's  own  mountains  watching  all. 

And  San  Miguel  lifts  high  his  dome 

Far  over  rock  and  tree, 
The  wild  deer  and  the  eagle's  home, 
The  mountains  at  his  knee, 
While  Loma  bathes  his  rocky  breast 
Deep  in  the  western  sea. 

164 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  DIEGO  165 

I  see  the  ships,  the  Spanish  ships, 

Ride  in  the  western  bay, 
Where  safe  at  last  from  wind  and  gale, 

The  pride  of  sea  kings  lay. 
And  the   friars  see  them,  and  think  of  home, 

As  they  cross  themselves  and  pray. 

And  far  along  the  valley's  sweep 

I  hear  the  vesper  chime, 

And  out  of  canyons  dark  and  deep 

Comes  back  the  mystic  rhyme; 
And  not  a  soul  but  prayeth  there 

For  it  is  a  holy  time. 

Gone  are  the  halls  where  long  ago 

There  dwelt  that  brotherhood, 
And  bare  brown  walls  and  arches  low 

Mark  where  the  mission  stood, 
And  the  moping  owl  makes  there  his  home, 

Where  he  feedeth  his  hungry  brood. 

Miguel  still  lifts  his  lofty  head 

Above  the  mountains  gray, 
And  Loma  Point  still  makes  his  bed 

Far  in  the  western  bay; 
But  the  times  are  changed,  and  the  days  are  dead, 

And  the  friars — where  are  they? 


166       THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  DIEGO 

Changed,  changed  is  all  save  yonder  sea, 
And  yonder  mountains  brown, 

The  breakers'  deep-toned  symphony 
When  the  tide  is  going  down, 

And  the  voices  of  the  mission  bells 
Of  San  Diego  town. 


THE  SEA  ANEMONE 

i 

Would  you  put  a  rose  to  shame? 

Would  you  see  a  color  more  rare, 
A  beauty  too  great  to  name, 

A  blush  that  is  still  more  fair? 

II 

Then  go  where  the  sea  tide  goes, 
Where  the  sea  anemone  is, 

A  rose  that  is  more  than  a  rose, 
A  kiss  that  is  more  than  a  kiss. 

in 
A  flower  that  has  a  soul, 

A  tremulous,  living  thing, 
Of  beauty  and  light  the  whole, 

A   crimson   imagining. 

IV 

Touch  not,  it  will  shrink  and  fade; 

But  look  all  rapturously, 
For  the  fairest  flower  yet  made 

Is  the  sea  anemone. 

167 


BEETHOVEN'S  SYMPHONY. 

"Pile  on  the  turf,"  the  farmer  said, 

"And  let  the  embers  glow, 
The  poor  man's  house  is  quickly  warmed, 

Whatever  winds  may  blow. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  by  our  hearth 

Accept  our  humble   cheer, 
For  down  the  lanes  the  north  wind  blows, 

The  night  is  cold  and  drear. 

"And  down  the  Baden  hills  there  comes 

The  sound  of  breaking  storm. 
The  Danube  holds  no  cheer  to-night, 

Within  its  icy  form. 
'Tis  twenty  miles  to  yonder  town 

And  thou  art  old  and  gray, 
And  thy  tired  limbs  have  done  their  own 

With  many  leagues  to-day. 

"So  sup  with  us  and  let  the  storm 

Blow  fierce,  blow  high  or  low, 
There  shall  be  good  times  by  our  hearth 

Whatever  winds  may  blow." 
So  gathering  round  the  frugal  board — 

"Let  us  give  thanks,"  he  said, 
"To  God  who  ruleth  on  the  storm, 

Who  gives  the  hungry  bread." 

168 


BEETHOVEN'S  SYMPHONY  169 

The  good  wife  sat  with  folded  hands, 

The  sons  with  heads  bowed  low, 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread, 

Whatever  winds  may  blow, 
And  here's  to  thee,  thou  stranger  guest, 

Fill  us  one  cup  the  more, 
There  must  be  joy  when  strangers  sit 

Within  our  humble  door." 

Then  bending  to  his  harpsichord, 

"My  children,  join  with  me, 
And  let  us  play  this  stormy  night, 

Beethoven's  Symphony." 
And  quickly  from  its  treasured  place 

Came  flute  and  mandolin — 
The  daughter  tuned  her  loved  guitar, 

The  sons,  the  violin. 

And  soon  the  strains  of  melody 

Filled   all   the   humble   room, 
And  sweet-toned  voices  answered  back, 

From  out  the  gathering  gloom; 
And  tones,  deep  souled  with  joy  or  pain, 

Grew  visible  with  form, 
Deepening  at  times  to  other  tones 

Heard  in  the  sounding  storm. 


170  BEETHOVEN'S  SYMPHONY 

And  sweeter,   sweeter  grew  the  strain, 

Like  angels  of   delight, 
Till  heaven  itself  grew  very  near 

To  those  who  played  that  night; 
While  strange  and  still,  the  guest  looked  on 

And  wondered  much  to  see, 
A  father  sob  and  strong  men  weep 

At  their  own  minstrelsy. 

"And  are  there  tones  on  earth,"  he  cried, 

"To  move  men's  hearts  like  this? 
Or  was  it  heavenly  music  lent 

To  fill  their  souls  with  bliss? 
I,  too,  love  music,  but  alas! 

I  hear  no  minstrel  strain. 
My  ears  hear  not;  nor  laugh,  nor  song, 

May  glad  my  heart  again. 

"Give  me  the  notes,  that  I  may  read 

The  tones  of  pathos  deep; 
He  is  immortal  who  can  write 

The  strains  that  make  you  weep." 
He  looked  but  once,  his  eyes  grew  dim 

And  quick  his  pulses  beat, 
As  with  a  sob  he  tremblingly 

Let  fall  the  written  sheet. 


BEETHOVEN'S  SYMPHONY  1J1 

"And   weep'st  thou  too,   thou   stranger  guest," 

The  wondering  peasant  said — 
"And  hast  not  heard  the  master's  tones, 

The  notes  that  we  have  played?" 
There  was  a  pause — the  stranger's  face 

Grew  sweet  in  every  line, 
"/  am  Beethoven,"  said  the  guest, 

"The  symphony  is  mine." 


SERENADE 

Now  is  the  happy  Christmas  morn 
When  all  the  world  is  glad  and  free; 

Since  kindliness  this  day  was  born, 
Sweet  love,  dear  heart,  be  kind  to  me. 

Were  I  the  prince  of  fairies,  dear, 
I'd  know  the  way  your  heart  to  win, 

I'd  sing  a  song  so  sweet  you'd  hear, 
And  ope  the  gates  and  let  me  in. 

Hark,  hark,  the  bells!  The  Christmas  tide 
Comes  dancing  in  with  love  and  song, 

On  viewless  wings  it  seems  to  ride, 
To  music's  strains  it  sweeps  along. 

Were  I  those  bells,  to  yonder  sky 
Such  rapturous  music  I  would  fling, 

That  only  dreaming  it  was  I, 

You'd  love,  and  bid  me  sing  and  sing. 

Now  is  the  time  when  roses  red 
Bloom  under  skies  of  lovelier  hue ; 

On  balmiest  winds  their  leaves  are  fed — 
Sweet  girl,  they'd  bloom  in  snow  for  you. 

172 


SERENADE  173 

Were  I,  dear  maid,  the  beauty  rose 

Upon  your  breast  this   Christmas   day, 

I'd  lie  so  close,  so  very  close 

I'd  hear  the  words  your  heart  would  say. 

To-night  will  be  the  Christmas  dance, 

Mazurka,  polka,  waltz,  and  all, 
And  you,  dear  one,  will  be  perchance, 

The  veriest  queen  of  all  the  ball. 

But  let  them  dance,  they  will  not  know 
In  that  same  room  I'm  dancing  too; 

To  flute  and  viol,  swift  or  slow, 

'Tis  I,  who  dance  all  night  with  you. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 

On  his  fair  island  of  the  sea 

He  tuned  his  lyre,  and  by  the  shore, 

There  rose  such  bursts  of  harmony 
As  England  never  heard  before. 

Men  had  not  known  our  English  tongue 
Could  sweep  so  soft  through  song  and  tale, 

In  notes  such  as  an  Orpheus  sung, 
With  voice  like  England's  nightingale. 

Beside  the  sounding  sea  he  walked, 
It  swelled  to  music  when  he  came — 

The  glist'ning  waves  together  talked, 
The  very  sand-hills  knew  his  name. 

Poet  of  beauty.     Maidens  knew 

How  sweetly  deep  his  words  could  thrill, 

Though  tenderer  than  a  rose  they  grew, 
His  verse  but  made  them  tenderer  still. 

He  touched  sweet  ghosts  of  long  ago, 
Through  far-off  vistas,  joys  and  tears; 

He  kissed  their  hands,  he  loved  them  so, 
They  smiled  across  a  thousand  years. 

174 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  175 

King  Arthur,  Launcelot,  Elaine, 

He  brought  them  back,  he  gave  them  breath; 
And  Guinevere,  and  all  her  train — 

For  them  there  is  no  longer  death. 

Wrapt  in  the  glory  of  his  song, 
His  leaves  of  laurel  on  their  brow, 

On  Fame's  glad  wings  they  sweep  along, 
They  are  the  whole  world's  children  now. 

Himself  a  ghost,  not  dead,  for  lo! 

He  walks  with  Shakespeare,  side  by  side! 
Like  some  bright  star  that  still  may  glow, 

When  night  into  the  day  has  died. 

The  sweet  enchantment  of  his  verse, 
Like  burning  Sappho's  wondrous  rhyme, 

Like  songs  that. birds  at  dawn  rehearse, 
He  gave  us  till  the  end  of  time. 


THE  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  SNOW 

The  snow  had  fallen  half  the  night, 

And  covered  all  the  street, 
And  all  the  roads,  and  all  the  lanes 

Were  like  a  winding  sheet. 

The  sun   came  out,  I  walked  alone, 

Nor  anything  did   see, 
Save  one  light  foot-print  in  the  snow, 

That   lay   ahead   of   me. 

The  daintiest  foot  it  must  have  been, 

For  where  it  lightly  fell 
It  warmed  the  white  snow  where  it  went, 
It  warmed  my  heart  as  well. 

Across  the  snow  I  followed  it, 

Evasive  as  the  wind, 
Along  the  lane,  or  down  the  street, 

I  followed  on  behind. 

She  never  knew  a  lover  came 
Who  had  not  seen  her  face, 

Who  only  guessed  her  young  and  fair 
By  that  sweet  footstep's  trace. 

176 


THE  FOOTSTEPS  IN  THE  SNOW  177 

Once,  and  another  rudely  crossed 
The  snow  where  she  had  been — 
I  halted,  heart  distressed,  then  caught 
Her  own  footstep  again. 

Fairer  in  fancy  grew  the  face, 

The  phantom   I  pursued, 
And  in  my  heart  was  only  thought 

Of  her  I  fondly  wooed. 

But  all  at  once  a  cruel  wind 
Swept  where  the  foot-prints  were, 

And  foot-prints  in  my  heart  at  last 
Is  all  there  is  of  her. 

O  maiden!  whereso'er  thou  art, 

One  lover  still  is  true, 
We  did  not  meet,  we  did  not  part, 

And  yet  I  love  but  you. 

And  when  the  lanes  are  freshly  white, 

I  through  them   idly  go, 
And  hope  by  some  sweet  fate  to  find 

Your  footstep  in  the  snow. 


IN  BURNS'  LAND. 

Beside  the  banks  of  Bonny  Doon 

Alone  I  walked  at  early  morn; 
I  heard  the  river's  rambling  tune, 

The  blackbird  whistling  on  the  thorn; 
I  heard  the  cadenced  song  of  one 

Who  walked  these  banks  as  I  do  now — 
His  ploughman's  harp  behind  him  flung, 

And  Scotland's  heather  on  his  brow. 

"Thou  spirit  of  the  Bard,"  I  cried, 

"Who  made  these  scenes  forever  dear, 
Walk  thou  this  morning  by  my  side, 

Let  me  but  know  thy  presence  near ; 
Let  me  but  touch  thy  mantle's  hem; 

Inspired,  I  too,  with  harp  in  hand, 
Like  yon  sweet  bird  on  flowering  stem, 

Would  be  with  Burns,  in  Burns'  land. 

"Come  back  one  happy  hour  again; 

The  hare-bells  stir  to  hear  thy  name; 
The  linnet  sings  the  old-time  strain; 

The  hawthorn  blooms  are  still  the  same. 
Still  flows  the  bonny  Doon  along, 

And  still  the  loved  and  winding  Ayr, 
Made  ever  sacred  by  thy  song; 

And  Nith  and  Annan  still  are  fair. 

178 


IN  BURNS'  LAND  179 

"The  lark,  inspired  with  newer  song, 

Soars  upward  from  his  dewy  bed; 
The  thrush  and  all  his  woodland  throng, 

The  purple  morn  have  worshipped : 
And  Scotland's  daisy,  for  thy  sake, 

Forever  blooms  by  bank  and  brae; 
And  Scotland's  heather,  broom  and  brake, 

Have  grown  immortal  with  thy  lay. 

4iAcros  the  moors  and  down  the  glen 

Come  Highland  laddies  as  of  old; 
And   snooded  lassies   walk  as  then — 

The  same  old  tale  is  being  told. 
In  yon  same  field  the  ploughman  turns 

The  daisy  down,  yet  wet  with  dew ; 
by  hedge  and  stone,  and  weed  and  ferns, 

He  sings  and  ploughs  and  thinks  of  you. 

"And  bonny  'Jean/  thy  bonnie  Jean, 

In  every  Scottish  heart  has  room — 
While  song  shall  last,  and  love  remain; 

While  brooks  shall  flow,  and  flowers  bloom. 
And  Highland  Mary  is  not  dead. 

Immortal   grown   in  that  new  birth, 
In  yon  bright  skies  her   soul  is  wed 

To  one  she  dearly  loved  on  earth. 


180  THE  CROWING  OF  THE  COCK 

"Then  come  one  happy  hour  again, 

Thou  poet  of  the  human  heart; 
Thy  Scotland  guards  thy  poet  fame, 

Where'er  in  yon  fair  realm  thou  art; 
Not  Scotland  only — near  or  far, 

By  cottage  hearth  or  purpled  throne, 
Where  true  hearts  beat  or  lovers  are, 

Mankind  will  claim  thee  as  its  own !" 

THE  CROWING  OF  THE  COCK 

i 

The  cock  crows  loud  from  yonder  barn 

His  midnight  bugle  call; 
Though  darkness  hangs  o'er  field  and  tarn, 

And  silence  over  all. 
He  watches  for  the  setting  star, 

The  daybreak  coming  on, 
And  trumpet-throated,  near  and  far, 

He  welcomes  in  the  dawn. 

II 

O  bird  of  joy,  no  saddened  note 

From  thee  has  ever  sprung; 
No  ringdove's  moan  is  in  thy  throat, 

Thy  heart  is  ever  young. 
Brave  to  the  death,  and  if,  perchance, 

The  battle,  long  and  grim, 
Fall  to  thy  own  victorious  lance, 

Thou  singst  a  battle  hymn. 


THE  CROWING  OF  THE  COCK  181 

III 

Proud  of  thy  splendor,  warrior  bird, 

And  of  thy  clarion  tone; 
No  Orient  breezes  ever  stirred 

A  radiance  like  thine  own. 
No  other  voice  but  sometimes  sings 

A  note  at   sorrow's   call ; 
Thou  singst  the  song  the  morning  brings, 
Or  singest  not  at  all. 

IV 

Like  thee,  I,  too,  would  joyous  be, 
Like  daylight's  coming  on, 

And  call  to  heaven  and  earth  and  sea 
The  gladness  of  the  dawn. 

Though  but  a  single  note  were  mine, 
If  it  with  music  rang, 

I'd  fill  my  cup  with  pleasure's  wine— 
The  happiest  bard  that  sang. 


CASTLES   IN  SPAIN 

I  have  built  me  some  castles  in  Spain, 
On  the  shores  of  an  emerald  sea, 

Where  the  waves  beat  a  mystical  strain. 
Will  you  come  to  my  castles  with  me? 

There  are  turrets  all  fretted  in  gold, 
And  fountains  that  glint  in  the  sun, 

And  gardens  with  perfumes  untold, 
And  nightingales  sing  in  each  one. 

There  are  roses  of  wonderful  hue, 

And  odorous  lilies  unfurl, 
There  are  skies  of  ethereal  blue, 

And  grottoes  of  marble  and  pearl. 

There  are  odors  of  orange  and  vine, 
There  are  notes  of  a  ravishing  tune, 

And  the  sound  of  the  lute  is  divine 
In  the  light  of  a  rapturous  moon. 

•».« 

It  is  not  far  away  to  the  clime 

Where  the  dreams  of  my  castles  appear! 
And  dearer  than  land  of  the  lime 

Is  the  voice  of  the  one  that  is  near! 

182 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN  183 

There  are  eyes  that  are  dear  to  behold, 
There  are  lips  where  my  kisses  have  lain, 

There  is  one  that  my  arms  shall  enfold, 
And  these  are  my  castles  in  Spain. 


ODE  TO  EMERSON 

It  was  so  long  since  Goethe  wrote, 
And  longer  since  the  Greek  days  were, 
That  Nature  sought  a  fresher  note, 
And  found  a  new  interpreter. 

Not  where  the  yellow  Tiber  stirred 
To  old-time  tales  the  gods  had  writ, 

But  by  the  western  seas  he  heard 
The  one  great  voice,  and  echoed  it. 

And  we  who  listened  to  his  words 
And  gazed  upon  the  face  serene, 

Thought  only  of  the  songs  of  birds, 
And  wondered  what  it  all  could  mean. 

So  deep  a  chord  we  could  not  reach, 
His  Alpine  heights  we  could  not  climb; 
From  far-off  stars  it  seemed,  the  speech 
A  hundred  years  ahead  of  time. 

He  led  us  to  his  high  plateau, 

To  cliffs  where  eagles  fear  their  death, 
And  dizzier  heights;  we  looked  below — 

We  only  looked,  and  held  our  breath. 

184 


ODE  TO  EMERSON  185 


But  time  has  lifted  us  above 

The  falseness  that  we  used  to  preach; 
All  creeds  are  dead — all  creeds  but  love : 

This  is  the  height  he  helped  us  reach. 

This  is  the  height,  though  in  the  clouds 
His  face  by  breezes  far  was  fanned, 

His  heart  still  lingered  in  the  crowds, 
His  feet  were  on  the  level  land. 

He  peopled  woods  and  shores  again, 
Not  with  the  gods  that  Homer  saw — 

A  higher  beauty  crossed  his  ken, 
The  beauty  born  of  love  and  law. 

He  heard  angelic  voices  speak 
In  aisles  of  pines,  in  forests  dim, 

And  not  one  little  flower  so  weak 
But  had  a  tale  to  tell  to  him. 

Seer,  poet,  friend,  still  shines  the  light 
You  planted  on  its  mountain  place, 

Torch  of  the  nations,  day  or  night, 
Uplifter  of  the  human  race. 


PHARAOH  IN  EGYPT 

A  pilgrim  to  the  mighty  Nile 

By  deeds  of  great  Sesostris  led — 

I  stood  and  looked  a  little  while 
Upon  the  face  of  Egypt's  dead. 

Dragged  from  their  tombs  in  desert  sands, 
Kings  of  the  old,  the  mighty  day, 

Robbed  of  their  cerements  and  bands, 
In  Cairo's  vast  museum  lay. 

And  thou,  Sesostris,  all  the  years 

Thou  hast  not  heard  how  nations  fall — 

Nor  wept  at  seas  of  human  tears, 
In  thy  own  Egypt  most  of  all. 

Above  her  hundred  Theban  gates, 
Her  eyes  expectant  to  the  skies, 

As  patient  as  the  Sphinx  she  waits 
The  truth  that  sleeps  but  never  dies. 

A  thousand  years  her  glory  shone — 
May  not  that  glory  shine  again? 

Time  that  has  kept  her  sculptured  stone 
Bears  in  her  womb  the  fates  of  men. 

186 


PHARAOH  IN  EGYPT  187 

Serene  thy  face,  oh  king,  as  t'were 

An  age  were  but  a  little  while: 
Thou  wast  a  God,  yet  listen,  there 

Thy  sons  are  slaves  beside  4he  Nile. 

Wake,  waken  once,  Sesostris,  wake — 
Shades  of  the  dead  might  overawe 

A  foe  that  makes  thy  children  break 
The  stones  for  kings  they  never  saw. 

Or,  must  we  perish,  let  it  be 
One  blow  we  strike  ere  all  be  past, 

To  make  us  worthy  to  be  free, 
Though  that  one  blow  should  be  our  last. 


ON  THE  BEACH 


We  sat  beside  the  sounding  sea — 

'Twas  twenty  years  ago — 
I  doubt  not  you've  forgotten  me, 

In  life's  great  ebb  and  flow, 
ii 

Yet  look,  the  beach  is  just  the  same — 
The  waves  come  in  as  blue, 

And  you — you  have  forgot  my  name — 
The  ocean  is  more  true. 
in 

Do  you  recall  one  summer  night? 

A  bright  star  shone  above — 
That  star  you  said  would  change  its  light 

Ere  you  would  change  your  love. 

IV 

But  look — last  night  it  shone  again, 
And  cast  a   wondrous   spell — 

Ah  me,  to  think  what  might  have  been 
Had  you  kept  faith  as  well, 
v 

There  was  a  song  you  used  to  sing, 
I  half  forget  the  air, 

188 


OAT  THE  BEACH  189 

A  little,  sad,  heart-breaking  thing, 
Of  one  as  false  .as  fair. 

VI 

Sometimes  I  hear  it  in  my  sleep, 

A  dreaming  discontent, 
Then  sudden  waking,  start  and  weep 

To  think  'twas  you  it  meant. 

VII 

Again  I  walk  along  the  strand 

Just  as  I  walked  with  you ; 
The  waves  still  wash  the  yellow  sand, 

Because  the  waves  are  true. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "AMERICA" 

Who  moulds  in  bronze  some  hero's  face, 

Or  carves  a  marble  bust, 
May  see  his  idol  lose  its  grace, 

His  marble  turn  to  dust. 

For  time  corrodes  the  bronze  he  casts ; 

The  Parian  marble  turns 
To  darker  hues,  or  but  outlasts 
The  ashes  in  its  urns. 

The  image  on  the  canvas  made 

No  lease  with  time  has  got; 
A  hundred  years — the  colors  fade, 

And  all  that  was,  is  not. 

The  arch,  the  spire,  the  lofty  dome, 

All  crumble  to  decay, 
And  all  that's  left  of  mighty  Rome 

Is  stone,  and  mire,  and  clay. 

No  work  e'er  done  by  mortal  hands 
Outlasts  Time's  wasting  flood; 

The  lion  walks  on  golden  sands 
Where  Homer's  cities  stood. 

190 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "AMERICA" 

Roofless  the  walls  of  Paestum  stand — 

They  only  speak  to  tell 
How  by  far  seas  and  desert  land, 

The  works  of  ages  fell. 

But  Homer,  breathing  on  his  lyre, 

Three  thousand  years  ago, 
Lit  with  his  torch  the  immortal  fire 

Whose  flames  forever  glow. 

And  Ajax'  name,  and  Helen's  face, 

For  ages  will  live  on, 
When  only  ruins  mark  the  place 

Where  stood  the  Parthenon. 

The  Lesbian  Temples  all  are  gone, 
But  songs  that  Sappho  sung 

Live  like  the  seas  that  beat  upon 
The  rock  from  which  she  sprung. 

So  time  will  keep  the  glorious  Hymn — 

The  patriot's  burning  lay, 
What  though  the  singer's  eyes  be  dim, 

Or  cold  the  poet's  clay! 


FROM  THE  ISLAND  OF  MADEIRA 

I  send  you,  dear  one,  roses  red, 
From  this  fair  island  of  the  sea, 

And  though  their  petals  may  be  dead, 
They  still  will  waken  thoughts  of  me. 

To-morrow,  and  the  ship  will  sail, 
I  know  not  where  'twill  bear  me  to, 

But  this  I  know,  if  calm  or  gale, 

My  thoughts,  dear  one,  will  be  of  you. 

An  hour  ago  I  walked  alone 

Where  break  the  billows  on  the  sand, 
A  feeling  came — you  must  have  known — 

As  in  a  dream  I  touched  your  hand. 

From  emerald  isles  these  roses  came, 
From  emerald  seas  of  far  away, 

I  kiss  them  and  they  breathe  your  name, 
A  thousand  things  to  you  they'll  say. 

Good-bye,  the  ship  to-morrow  sails, 
Good-bye,  for  islands  just  as  fair, 

Where  roses  born  in  other  vales 
Will  sweetly  whisper  "she  is  there." 

192 


HER  PRESENCE 

"Whence  come  thy  blushes,"  to  the  rose  I  said, 
"Thou    sweet    enchantress    of    the    garden, 

speak !" 

The  rose  a  moment  grew  more  sweetly  red — 
"Last   night    I    stole   them    from   thy   lady's 
cheek." 

"And  that  dear  perfume  that  my  senses  thrills, 
That  dewy  odor,  faint  yet  ever  nigh, 

Rose  of  the  rose,  that  only  heaven  distills?" 
"That,  too,  is  hers;  she  kissed  me,  passing 
by." 

The  peeping  violet  in  yonder  dell 

I  questioned,  wondering  what  it  would  say, 
"This  heavenly  blue,  whence  comes  it?    Will'st 
thou  tell?" 

"From  her  blue  eyes  I  borrowed  it  one  day." 

I  kissed  the  lily,  as  a  lover  might, 
And  bade  it  tell,  what  love  already  guessed, 

"What  made  thy  petals  all  so  snowy  white?" 
"Last    night    I    slept   upon    thy    sweetheart's 
breast." 

193 


194  HER   PRESENCE 

A  song-bird  sang  in  yonder  cedar  tree — 
"Whence  that  dear  music  to  my  soul?"I  cried, 

"  Tis  hers,  'tis  hers,"  it  sweetly  answered  me, 
"I  heard  her  sing  it  at  the  eventide." 

What  matters  then  though  she  be  far  away, 
Yon  blushing  rose  her  beauty  will  retrace, 

And  bird  and  flower  shall  show  me  every  day 
Her  blessed  presence  in  this  very  place. 


ON  PASSING  SAN  REMO 

Go  slow,  go  slow,  ship  of  the  sea, 

Along  San  Remo's  shore, 
A  little  moment  I  would  be 

By  Helen's  side  once  more. 
There  are  the  orange  groves,  the  hill — 

Where  she  was  wont  to  play — 
The  roses  all  are  blooming  still, 
She  was  as  sweet  as  they. 

The  little  dell  where  violets  grew, 

Oh,  I  could  ne'er  forget, 
And  though  the  violets  were  so  blue 

Her  eyes  were  bluer  yet. 
I  look  again,  the  glass  is  dim — 

Oh,  heart,  oh,  blinding  tears, 
Beyond  the  little  harbor's  rim 

Lie  dead  the  happy  years. 

Speak  but  one  word,  give  me  a  sign, 

A  touch,  a  kiss,  a  hand, 
There  could  not  be  a  heart  like  mine 

On  any  sea  or  land. 
Through  all  the  years  since  thou  art  gone 

Have  I  not  called  to  thee? 
And  I  will  still  call  on,  and  on, 

By  land  and  shore  and  sea. 

195 


196  THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

And  I  have  crossed  the  wandering  main 

One  moment  to  be  near 
The  violet  beds  and  hills  again, 

And  think  that  thou  art  here. 
Now  swift  across  the  emerald  green, 

Sweet  ship,  go  on  thy  way, 
For  one  dear  moment  I  have  seen 

My  little  girl  to-day. 


THE  TURTLE  DOVE 

Once  I  could  sing  a  happy  roundelay, 

With  her  apart. 
A  hunter  shot  my  mate  one  day — 

It  broke  my  heart. 

And  now,  alone,  in  some  sweet  blossomed  lane, 

Where  once  we  were, 
I  moan  a  little  song  of  pain — 

Ajid  all  for  her. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  in  the  air  around 

She  hears  me,  sad. 
My  voice  to  her  was  such  a  happy  sound — 

Then,  I  am  glad. 


LARRY  AND  I. 

Larry  and  I  are  the  first  ones  awake, 
'Ere  a  chirp  of  the  robin  is  heard  on  the  lawn ; 

For  myself,  I  am  up  for  the  very  dear  sake 
Of  seeing  the  glory  that  comes  with  the  dawn. 

Larry,  he  carries  the  papers  around, 

In  the  gray  of  the  morning,  to  rich  and  to 

poor; 

But  little  they  dream  in  their  slumbers  profound, 
The  weight  of  the  message  he  leaves  at  their 
door. 

He  and  I  only,  abroad  on  the  streets 
When  the  lingering  moon  is  just  hiding  from 

view, 

And  the  little  brown  owl  in  the  hollow  repeats — 
"The  morning  was  made  just  for  Larry  and 
you." 


197 


198  LARRY  AND  I 

Sudden  there's  streaking  of  rose  in  the  sky — 
There  is  gold  on  the  windows  of  hovel  and 
hall; 

The  steeds  of  the  Sun-god  are  hurrying  by, 
And  Larry  and  I  are  alone  with  it  all. 

Sudden  there's  waking  in  meadows  and  grove, 
Throstles  and  thrushes  in  musical  glee; 

The  world  has  its  songs  and  its  singers  to  love, 
But  the  song  of  the  throstle's  for  Larry  and 
me. 

Waken,  O  waken!    The  light's  on  the  hills, 

Would'st  taste  of  the  cup  of  celestial  wine — 
The  breath  of  the  morning — would'st  know  how 

it  thrills? 

Come,  drink  from  this  sup,  then,  of  Larry's 
and  mine! 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS 

Once  more  the  Autumn  in  her  robes  of  gold 
Comes  o'er  the  hills  in  festival  attire; 

Dead  is  the  rose — but  look ;  the  forests  hold 
A  newer  beauty  for  the  heart's  desire. 

Now  are  the  days  of  gorgeous  colorings; 

The  Master  Painter  touched  the  world  last 

night, 
And  every  hour  some  added  glory  brings, 

Till  all  the  scene's  a  ravishing  delight. 

The  scarlet  vines  along  the  hedge-rows  creep; 

The  sumac  bushes  turn  to  fiery  red; 
The  far-off  hills  their  misty  silence  keep, 

And  like  a  dream's  the  blue  sky  overhead. 

There  are  the  fields  so  lately  harvested, 

And  lanes  hemmed  in  with  plumed  golden  rod ; 

And  look!    The  woods,  to  every  color  wed, 
Seem  all  emblazoned  by  the  hand  of  God. 


199 


200  TBE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS 

A  thousand  flags  from  every  tree  shall  swing — 
A  thousand  hues  on  every  banner  show, 

Enthroned  beauty  stamped  on  everything; 
The  Master  Painter  knew  to  make  it  so. 

And  music,  too,  melodious  and  low, 

Like  to  the  notes  of  some  far  elfin's  horn, 

Or  soft  sea-music  when  the  tide's  aflow — 
It  is  the  wind  among  the  rustling  corn. 

When  scenes  like  these  in  soft  September  wait, 

Lay  down  they  work  a  little  and  rejoice; 
Take  thou  a  glimpse  through  Heaven's  half-open 

gate— 

And,  hast  thou  ears,  thou'lt  hear  the  Master's 
voice. 


WHEN  LEONORA  PLAYS 

'Tis  said  when  violins  are  played 
That  other  strings,  alike  in  tune, 

By  some  soft  mystery  are  made 
To  also  wake,  and  tremble  soon. 

I  do  not  know  the  secret,  quite, 
For  Nature  has  such  curious  ways, 

I  only  know  I  have  delight 
Whenever  Leonora  plays. 

Perhaps  my  heart  strings  all  are  set 

Accordant  with  yon  violin. 
Oh!  stroke  of  fortune,  thus  I  let 
The  mystery  of  the  music  in. 

I  listen,  while  I  close  my  eyes, 
And  troops  of  fairies  come  and  go. 

I  wonder  if  in  Paradise 
They  speak  the  language  of  the  bow? 

Ours  is  a  little  day,  at  best, 

Some  wearing  myrtle,  some  the  bays, 
But,  oh!  what  heart  would  not  have  rest, 
Whenever  Leonora  plays. 

201 


IN  PURPLE  SEAS. 

We  are  like  hulls  of  ships  that  ride 
In  purple  seas  and  know  not  why, 

Nor  see  the  pilot  hands  that  guide, 
Nor  masts,  nor  sails,  nor  any  sky. 

There  in  the  twilight  of  the  deep, 
Where  far  and  dim  the  shadows  fall, 

Their  little  round  of  life  they  keep, 
And  vaguely  ask  if  this  be  all. 

So  we  in  seas  of  purple  ride, 
In  web-like  mists  around  us  spun, 

Nor  know  what  dream-like  curtains  hide 
The  splendor  of  some  setting  sun. 

Close  to  us  sweep  mysterious  things, 
The  secrets  of  the  earth  and  sky; 

They  touch  us  with  their  radiant  wings, 
We  almost  hear  them  passing  by. 

But  through  the  amber-lighted  afr, 
Our  little  senses  cannot  reach; 

Tho'  soft,  low  voices  whisper  there, 
We  hear,  but  do  not  know  their  speech. 

202 


IN  PURPLE  SEAS  203 

Sometime  with  other  eyes  than  these, 
Lo,  we  shall  see  the  veil  withdrawn, 

And  drifting  from  the  purple  seas 
Our  night  shall  melt  into  the  dawn. 


LA  MARGUERITE. 

He  made  an  air  ship,  fair  and  trim, 
Just  like  a  bird,  and  when  complete, 

It  seemed  so  beautiful  to  him 
He  called  it  "La  belle  Marguerite." 

****** 

"Now  for  a  midnight  ride,"  he  said, 

And  cheering  thousands  wished  him  fair, 

And  as  the  sun  went  to  its  bed, 
His  shallop  leaped  into  the  air. 

He  sailed  among  the  stars  of  night 
Like  some  strange  meteor  of  the  sky, 

Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  flight, 
Beyond  the  ken  of  human  eye. 

Still  up,  and  on,  and  on  he  climbs, 
And  then  the  crescent  moon  appears, 

All  is  so  still  he  hears  betimes 
The  fabled  music  of  the  spheres 

No  cloud  obscures  the  perfect  glow 
Of  moon  and  starlight  over  him, 

While  in  the  shadows,  down  below, 
He  sees  the  world's  inverted  rim. 

204 


LA  MARGUERITE  205 

He  sees  a  city's  lights  and  towers, 

All  silent  as  the  moon  o'er  head, 
Save  one  great  bell  that  tolls  the  hours 

As  't  were  some  city  of  the  dead. 

All  night  his  star-born  shallop  flies, 

Amazed  the  very  stars  look  on, 
Till  once,  a  darkness  fills  the  skies, 

And  light  and  moon  ajid  stars  are  gone. 

A  little  while — the  cloud  is  by; 

A  soft'ning  twilight's  in  the  air, 
A  glowing  gladness  fills  the  sky, 

The  world's  in  daylight  everywhere. 

For  he  has  left  the  night's  abode, 
And  towards  the  morning  hurries  on, 

And  swifter  than  Apollo  rode 
The  golden  horses  of  the  sun. 

Into  the  happy  dawn  he  goes, 

On  all  the  world  a  splendor  lies, 
A  mantle,  as  of  gold  and  rose, 

A  dream  as  if  from  Paradise. 


206  £4  MARGUERITE 

What  thrill  of  joyance  must  be  his! 

Alone  on  ether  seas  to  ride! 
Who  would  not  days  of  pleasure  miss 

For  just  one  moment  by  his  side? 

A  thousand  miles;  the  flight  is  done, 
Through  starry  night  and  rosy  skies ; 

Last  night  he  left  the  setting  sun, 
Now  he  beholds  it  slowly  rise. 

A  moment  and  he  leaves  behind 

The  stars   with  all  their  banners  furled. 
And  on  the  stair-way  of  the  wind 

Comes  back  into  the  waiting  world. 


THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY. 

The  morning  belongs  to  God, 
And  the  bird's  first  carols,  too, 

When  the  breath  of  the  rose  is  abroad 
And  the  lily  is  wet  with  dew. 

When  the  stars  of  the  night  go  out, 
And  the  gates  of  the  East  unfold. 

Til  the  glad  hills  seem  to  shout 
In  purple  and  rose  and  gold. 

When  a  something  is  in  the  air 
Exalting — we  know  not  why — 

And  beauty  is  everywhere 
In  the  dawn  that  is  drawing  nigh 

Oh,  then  is  the  blessed  hour, 
Oh,  sleeper  arise — arise, 
When  blossom  and  tree  and  flower 
Are  likest  to  Paradise. 


207 


208  THE    PAWNING  OF  THE  DAY 

Wouldst  know  of  a  joy  supreme, 
Then  come  when  the  day  is  born, 

And  the  night  like  a  dying  dream 
Melts  into  the  crimson  morn. 

Oh,  haste  to  the  glowing  dawn, 
To  rose  and  lily  ablown, 

For  the  glory  is  coming  on, 
And  the  Master  is  with  His  own. 


THE  INVISIBLE  NUN 

Three  nuns  there  were  on  a  ship  at  sea, 

And  each  was  very  fair; 
But  one  was  fairer  than  all  the  rest, 

And  she  had  golden  hair. 

Sweet  nuns  they  were,  and  their  rosaries 

They  counted  every  day; 
They  held  their  beads  in  their  lily  hands, 

I  would  that  I  were  they. 

They  were  "but  three,"  the  ship- folks  said. 

Yet  four  there  were,  I  swear ; 
For  the  fairest  one  I  counted  twice, 

Because  she  was  so  fair. 

I  counted  twice — for  two  she  was, 

Plain  as  the  stars  above; 
For  half  of  her  was  a  sweet  nun's  face, 

And  half  was  a  face  for  Love. 


209 


210  THE  INVISIBLE  NUN 

And  ever  when  on  the  deck  they  came, 

And  low  their  voices  fell, 
The  ship-folks  bowed  to  the  sisters  three, 

I  bowed  to  a  fourth  as  well. 

And  they  are  gone,  with  their  rosaries, 

Gone  are  the  sisters  three — 
But  half  of  her  with  the  golden  hair 

Will  stay  forever  with  me. 


AT  SEVENTY-FIVE. 

Well,  well,  and  you  say  it's  tomorrow, 

A  riddle,  as  I  am  alive 
I'd  guessed  you  along  about  sixty, 

And  here   you   are   seventy-five. 

No  riddle,  no  magic  about  it, 

The  road  was  so  easy  and  plain, 
Twas  living  just  closer  to  nature, 

I  loved  her  in  sunshine  or  rain. 

i 

Out  doors  was  the  world  of  my  fancy, 
The  breath  of  the  morning  was  mine — 

Her  cup  running  over  with  beauty 
I  drank  of  celestial  wine. 

For  I  had  the  woods  and  the  river, 
And  I  had  the  blue  of  the  sky — 

The  soul,  you  know,  too,  must  be  nourished, 
The  rose  without  water  will  die. 

Oh !  yes,  and  I  had  the  changing 

That  comes  with  the  night  and  the  morn, 

To  all  who  are  born  here  of  woman, 
For  I  had  the  rose  and  the  thorn. 

211 


212  AT  SEVENTY-FIVE 

But  never  a  day  was  so  darkened 

Yet,  somewhere,  there  still  was  a  light, 

No  cloud  is  so  black  but  above  it 
The  sun  is  still  shining  and  bright. 

I  took  the  world  just  as  I  found  it, 
God  made  it,  and  said  it  was  good, 

Perhaps  I  had  made  it  some  better 
But  I  was  not  asked  if  I  could. 

For  lucre,  I  cared  not  a  whistle, 
The  wealth  of  a  sweet  summer's  day 

Has  more  of  the  good  of  God's  riches 
Than  all  of  the  mines  of  Cathay. 

The  best  that  God  has  cometh  gratis, 
The  splendor  of  morning  is  free, 

He  asketh  no  price  for  the  beauty 
Of  moonlight  and  starlight  and  sea. 

The  linnet  up  yonder  is  singing, 
And  yonder  the  sky  is  aglow, 

And  yonder  the  trees  of  St.  Helen's 
Still  look  on  the  river  below. 

No,  no,  there's  no  magic  about  it, 

Or  easy  the  riddle  is  sung, 
Who  keepeth  a  kinship  with  Nature 

Today  and  forever  is  young. 


THE  FIGHT  OFF  FLAMBORO  HEAD. 

Boom,  boom,  boom!    'Twas  a  hundred  years  ago 
Two  ships  sailed  in  the  North  Sea 

When  the  sun  was  lying  low. 
One  carried  the  flag  of  England, 

The  Serapis — forty-four — 
And  one  was  the  Bonhomme  Richard, 

Paul  Jones'  man-of-ivar. 

Steady  the  wind  blew  northward, 

And  steady  the  two  ships  sailed, 
Beyond  the  Flamboro  lighthouse, 

When  the  British  Captain  hailed: 
"What  ship  is  that?     Give  answer!" 

For  a  moment  it  was  so  still 
You  might  have  heard  a  lamb's  bleat 

Far  off  on  Flamboro  hill. 

Then,  sudden  the  Bonhomme  Richard 

A  cannon's  answer  sent, 
Across  the  sea  to  Flamboro  Head 

The  echoing  answer  went. 
And  into  the  night  the  cannon  roared, 

And  the  sun  went  down  all  red, 
Still  into  the  night  the  cannon  roared, 

And  the  moon  rose  overhead. 

213 


214       THE  FIGHT  OFF  FLAMBORO  HEAD 

Then  out  of  the  smoke  and  thunder 

The  arrogant  Briton  yelled, 
"Do  you  give  up  your  ship — surrender? 

A  moment  his  fire  is  held. 
"No!"  came  from  the  Bonhomme  Richard, 

"No!"  answered  the  bold  sea-knight, 
"May  God  have  mercy  on  you, 

I  have  only  commenced  to  fight!" 

A  half  an  hour — 'tis  finished, 

The  British  flag  goes  down, 
Three  hundred  are  dead  and  dying 

In  sight  of  Flamboro  town. 
The  Bonhomme  Richard,  sinking, 

Goes  down  with  her  dead  below, 
But  the  flag  of  the  Bonhomme  Richard 

Floats  over  the  fallen,  foe. 

Boom,  boom,  boom!   'Twos  a  hundred  years  ago 
Two  ships  sailed  in  the  North  Sea 

When  the  sun  was  lying  low. 
One  carried  the  flag  of  England, 

The  Serapis — forty-four — 
And  one  was  the  Bonhomme  Richard, 

Paul  Jones'  man-of-war. 


BEYOND  THE  GATES. 

We  often  wondered,  she  and  I, 

What  thing  might  lie  behind  the  wall, 

Whose  gate  stands  open  when  we  die, 
Then  sudden,  shuts  beyond  recall. 

We  longed  and  looked,  and  dear  ones  past 

As  if  on  wings  in  viewless  air, 
No  path  they  left,  nor  shadow  cast, 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  we  knew  not  where. 

Sometimes  when  twilight  gathered  round, 
Each  spake  to  each  when  lamps  were  low, 

And  never  yet  God's  answer  found; 
We  only  said,  We  do  not  know. 

Then  came  a  promise  each  to  each, 
Our  thoughts  still  on  the  gate  divine, 

Beyond  the  wall,  if  one  has  speech, 
Who  enters  first  shall  give  a  sign. 


215 


216  BEYOND  THE  GATES 

One  summer  day  she  left  my  side, 
A  struggle  and  the  angels  won; 

And  that  sad  gate  that  stood  so  wide, 
I  heard  it  close  and  all  was  done. 

And  then  I  waited  for  the  sign; 

If  love  could  pierce  the  mighty  wall, 
Then  she  would  speak,  this  lost  of  mine; 

I  listened,  but  no  word  at  all; 

Till  once,  with  Nature  all  in  tune, 
I  walked  beneath  the  myriad  stars ; 

The  breath  of  night  was  on  the  June, 
And  God  seemed  letting  down  the  bars. 

And  all  at  once  I  seemed  to  hear 

Celestial  music  in  the  sky, 
And  her  sweet  voice,  so  soft  and  clear; 

And  then  I  knew,  we  do  not  die. 


NOTES. 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea. 

This  song,  which  has  the  honor  of  giving  its  name  to 
the  most  picturesque  campaign  of  the  War,  "The March 
to  the  Sea,"  and  was  characterized  by  General  Sherman 
himself  as  the  shortest  complete  history  of  the  same, 
was  written  one  chilly  morning  in  a  little  wedge  tent  at 
the  rebel  prison  camp  of  Columbia,  S.  C.,  where  Adju 
tant  Byers  had  the  hard  fate  to  be  quartered,  with  some 
hundreds  of  fellow-prisoners.  Meagre  reports  of  Sher 
man's  leaving  Atlanta  had  come  through  a  daily  rebel 
paper,  which  a  kindly  disposed  negro  stuffed  into  the 
loaf  of  bread  furnished  to  a  mess  of  the  Union  prisoners 
who  were  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  little  money  to  pay 
for  it.  Through  its  troubled  lines  the  eager  ears  and 
eyes  of  the  starved  men  read  hope  and  coming  freedom. 

Another  prisoner,  Lieutenant  Rockwell,  heard  the 
poem  and  under  the  floor  of  the  hospital  building, 
where  a  number  of  musical  prisoners  quartered  them 
selves  on  mother  earth,  wrote  the  music.  It  was  first 
sung  by  the  prison  glee  club,  led  by  Major  Isett,  where, 
intermingled  with  the  strains  of  "  Dixie  "  and  kindred 
airs,  to  adapt  it  to  rebel  hearers,  it  was  heard  with  ap 
plause.  By  the  fortune  of  war,  the  entry  of  General 
Sherman's  victorious  army  into  Columbia  released  Ad 
jutant  Byers  from  a  fifteen  months'  captivity.  General 
Sherman  gave  him  a  temporary  position  on  his  staff, 
and,  later,  sent  him  as  the  bearer  of  the  first  despatches 
North  to  General  Grant  and  President  Lincoln,  announc 
ing  the  victorious  progress  of  tiis  army  through  the  Car- 
olinas. 


NOTES. 

On  reaching  the  North,  Adjutant  Byers  was  astonished 
to  hear  that  his  verses  had  preceded  him,  and  had  be 
come  popular  as  a  song  all  over  the  country.  The  song 
assumes  the  march  to  have  commenced  at  Chattanooga, 
not  Atlanta,  and  it  is  now  well  known  that  Sherman's 
hard-fought  Atlanta  campaign  was  by  him  intended  a* 
the  first  step  for  the  ocean. 

The  Ballad  of  Columbus. 

The  fates  seem  to  have  conspired  in  making  the  life  of 
Columbus  romantic  as  well  as  great.  There  is  not  an  in 
cident  mentioned  in  the  ballad  that  does  not  find  its  au 
thority  in  sober  history.  From  the  sudden  eruption  of 
the  volcano  on  Teneriffe  to  the  death  scene  in  a  little  un 
known  Seville  inn,  each  step  of  the  voyager's  life  was  as 
if  done  in  a  drama. 

The  dearest  wish  of  Columbus  had  been  to  secure 
great  sums  of  monay  in  the  New  World,  to  be  used  in 
equipping  an  army  for  the  rescue  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

Margery  Brown. 

The  London  Lancet  relates  how  a  young  girl,  losing  her 
lover,  became  insane,  and  lost  all  calculation  of  time. 
She  never  knew  that  she  was  growing  older,  and,  believ 
ing  herself  always  young,  remained  so  in  appearance, 
and  at  seventy  was  as  blooming  as  a  girl  of  twenty.  Her 
case  was  a  psychological  marvel,  cited  to  prove  the  influ 
ence  of  the  mind  over  the  body. 

News  at  the  White  House. 

During  the  battle  of  Chattanooga  President  Lincoln 
sat  alone  at  a  telegraph  instrument  listening  to  the  great 
news  as  it  was  wired  up  to  Washington.  The  assault,  in 
which  the  writer  took  part,  commenced  as  soon  as  Sher 
man's  troops  had  crossed  the  Tennessee  River  at  Chick 
amauga  Creek. 


NOTES. 

The  Guard  on  the  Volga. 

Some  years  since,  when  the  terrible  plague  was  devas 
tating  parts  of  Asia,  the  Russians  established  a  line  of 
pickets  along  the  Volga  Hirer  to  incercept  travel,  and 
thus  check  the  march  of  the  disease  into  their  country. 

The  Tramp  of  Sherman's  Army. 

Eecited  at  the  reunion  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee 
in  Cincinnati,  September  26,  1889.  General  Sherman 
presided.  All  the  then  living  generals  of  the  great  Army 
of  the  Tennessee  were  on  the  stage,  and  participated. 
The  toasts  for  the  occasion  were  printed  on  beautiful 
satin  maps  representing  Sherman's  greatest  campaign, 
and  their  sentiments  consisted  of  extracts  and  parts  of 
verses  from  the  Lyric  of  "Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea." 

It  was  General  Sherman's  last  public  appearance  as 
President  of  the  Society  that  comprised  nearly  all  the  of 
ficers  who  had  marched  and  fought  with  *""!  from  Chat- 
tanooga  to  the  ocean. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA 

"A  campaign,  the  like  of  which  has  not  been  read  of  in 
past  history" — U.  S.  Grant. 


THE  TRUMPETER 


Frontispiece    Part    II 


THE  MAECH  TO  THE  SEA. 


PAET  I, 


PRELUDE. 

1. 

O  READER,  listen,  if  it  is  thy  will 
To  know  of  things  that  half  forgot 
ten  are — 

Heroic  deeds  that  may  thy  bosom  thrill, 
And  hear  a  tale  of  heroes  in  the  war. 

2. 

Think  that  you  hear  a  bugle  sounding  yet, 
And  see  a  camp  within  a  forest  fair, 

White  rows  of  tents  amidst  the  green  aisles 

set, 
And  silent  sentries  slowly  walking  there. 


10  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

3. 

See  once  again  the  bivouacs  in  the  wood, 
And  soldiers  sleeping  where  the  shadows 

fall, 
The   oaks   and   pines,  that  centuries   have 

stood, 
And  glorious  moonlight  shining  over  all. 

4. 

And  smouldering   fires   whose   ashes   have 

grown  cold, 
And  stacks  of  muskets  standing  there  in 

line, 
And   banners  drooping,  with  their  stars  of 

gold, 
Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  silent  pine. 

5. 

For  things  like  these  a  thousand  times  were 

seen, 
Blue  coat,  or  gray,  their  camps  were  still 

the  same, 
And  oft  a  river  only  rolled  between, 

That  saw  them  f  oemen  when  the  morning 
came. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  H 

6. 

Then  gleamed  their  blades,  and  shone  their 

fronts  of  steel, 
The   fearful    sounds   the    leaders'   voices 

drown ; 

The  guns  flash  out,  the  black-mouthed  can 
nons  peal, 
As  if  the  forests  all  were  crashing  down. 

7. 

And  brave  they  fought,  whichever  side  they 

stood, 
And  met  death  there,  not  trembling  nor 

with  fear, 

For  blue  or  gray,  now  struggling  in  that  wood, 
Each  struck  for  something  that  his  heart 
held  dear. 

8. 

And  when  again  the  night  around  them  fell, 

And  in  their  camps  all  peacefully  they  lay, 

The  glorious  moon,  with  its  enchanting  spell, 

Still  shone  alike  on  blue  coat  and  on  gray. 


12  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

THE  SILENT  CITY. 
ATLANTA. 

I. 

IT  WAS  a  time  not  very  far  away, 
For  men  still  live  who  knew  that  city 

well, 
And  though  their  beards  be  turning  into 


Their  eyes  rekindle  when  again  they  tell 
How  on  a  time  they  saw  a  city,  fair, 
Where  no  one  lived,  yet  armies  marshalleu 
there. 

n. 

Grass  grew  at  will  in  every  empty  street, 
And  roses  bloomed  on  every  garden  wall, 
And   sweetbriar    climbed  with  dear   and 

noiseless  feet  ; 
One  almost  thought  to  hear  the  blossoms 

fall, 

Or  the  bright  moonlight,  as  it  shone  apace, 
It  was  so  silent  in  that  wondrous  place. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  13 

III. 

Closed  every  door  and  every  latticed  shade, 
Where  once  fair  maids  on  lovers  had  looked 
down, 

In  the  dear  days  ere  hope  began  to  fade, — 
In  the  dear  days  ere  all  had  silent  grown  ; 

Ere  cruel  war  upon  the  city  burst, 

To  leave  its  children  wanderers  and  accurst ! 

IV. 

The  old  town  clock  there  in  its  steeple 

high, 

Still  tolled  the  hours  upon  the  starlit  air, 
And   faint  one  heard  the  hungry  watch 
dog's  cry 

Chained  to  his  post, — he  was  forgotten  there ; 
And  days  had  gone,  and  nights  in  silence 

passed, 

Since  all  the  people  from  the  town  were 
cast.* 

v. 

Calm  sat  the  city  in  its  solitude, 
No  sound  of  wheels  or  footsteps  now  was 
heard, 

*  Note  1. 


14  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

In  the  white  moonlight  tower  and  steeple 

stood, 
The  summer  wind  the   rose-leaves  scarcely 

stirred  ; 

Only  the  notes  of  some  far  bugle's  call 
Disturbed  the  silence  that  was  over  all. 

VI. 

Long   summer    days  the    hostile    armies 

strove 
For  mast'ry  of  this  city,  now  so  bare, 

And  many  a  field  and  many  a  far-off  grove 
Told  of  the  death  that  soldiers  met  with  there ; 

A  hundred  days  of  conflict  and  of  blood, 

A  hundred  days,  so  long  the  city  stood  ; 

VII. 

Till,  on  a  time  when  thousands  had  been 

slain, 
And  graves  were  thick  in  every  wood  and 

dell, 
And  death  reaped  men  as  harvesters  their 

grain, 

The  day  was  lost,  and  then  the  city  fell : 
The  city  fell — and  through  its  every  gate 
The  people  went,  and  left  it  desolate. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  15 

VIII. 

And  they  who   conquered  camped  about 

its  walls, 
And  left  it  standing  empty  and  alone — 

Its  silent  streets  and  its  deserted  halls, 
Its  roses  blooming,  but  its  people  gone. 

One  had  not  known,  it  was  so  still  and  fair. 

That  war  and  death  had  ever  entered  there. 

IX. 

Then  came  a  calm,  and  while  the  victors 

lay 

In  their  white  tents,  amidst  the  forest  green, 
They  told  the  tales  of  their  long,  danger 
ous  way, 

Of  many  a  march,  the  battles  they  had  seen, 
Before  they  reached  this  city  of  delight, 
For  so  it  seemed  in  the  soft  summer  night. 

x. 

One  told  how  once  on  Lookout's  height 

they  fought, 

Wrapped  in  the  clouds,  and  hid  from  all  be 
low  ; 


16  THE  MAliCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

How    every  step  with   danger  had  been 

fraught, 

Each  cliff  a  fort,  and  every  tree  a  foe  ; 
How  on  they  climbed,  along  the  mountain 

dread, 
And  no  soul  asked  what  still  might  be 

ahead. 

XI. 

Till  at  high  noon  an  awful  darkness  fell 
Of   mist,    and    fog,    and    smoke — a    battle 

shroud — 
And  who  his  nearest  comrade  none  could 

tell, 

Nor  see  the  flames  of  cannon  in  the  cloud, — 
When,  suddenly,  a  rift  broke  in  the  west ; 
They  saw,  and  cheered,  and  charged  the 
mountain's  crest. 

XII. 

Another  told  of  Missionary  Ridge, 
And  Sherman's  army  by  the  Tennessee, 

That  starless  night,  and  never  any  bridge, 
The  army  floating  there  so  noiselessly  ; 

The  muffled  oar,  the  silence,  and  the  tide, 

And  death,  grim,  waiting  on  the  other  side. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  17 

XIII. 

The  awful  charge,  the   storming  at  the 

Left, 
The  hundred  guns  that  flamed  across  their 

path, 

The  battle  roaring  in  the  mountain's  cleft. 
The   smoking    rocks,   the   red-hot  cannon's 

wrath, 
Till  down  the  hill  there  came  the  exulting 

cry, 

"  The  Ridge  is  ours  ;  they  fly,  the  foemen 
fly!" 

XIV. 

And  round  the  camp-fires  there  was  talk 

of  him 

Who  led  our  Left  to  victory  on  that  day, 
Who,  spite  of  foes,  and  wounds,  and  valor 

grim, 
Still  kept  his  heart  like  some  sweet  child's  at 


Not  war  his  choice,  nor  conflict's  dreadful 

din,  — 
His  love  for  others  took  the  whole  world  in. 

2 


18  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XV. 

At  every  camp-fire  he  was  called  the  Good, 
By  every  soldier  he  was  called  the  Brave, 
The  kind,  true  knight,  whom  every  com 
rade  would 

Have  followed,  faithful  even  to  the  grave ; 
The  glorious  hero,  warrior  of  the  West, — 
Mighty  his  sword,  but  peace  he  loved  the 
best. 

XVI. 

Of  him  they  told  how,  with  prophetic  eye, 
From  Lookout's  heights  he  saw  Atlanta  rise, 

And  knew  that  there  his  battle-path  must 

lie, 
Or  else  in  vain  were  all  his  victories. 

And  farther,  deeper  still,  his   vision  went, 

Of  armies  marching  o'er  a  continent. 

XVII. 

The  drums    now  beat ;    "  Lights   out !  " 

the  sergeants  call ; 

Sounds  the  tattoo  in  all  the  forest  round ; 
And  soon  'tis  silent  in  the  bivouacs  all, 
The     camp-fires,   dying,    smoulder    to    the 
ground. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  19 

Above  the  camp  the  stars  their   silence 

keep, 
And  in  the  moonlight  all  the  soldiers  sleep. 

XVIII. 

The  soldiers  sleep,  and  in  their  visions  feel 
Once  more  the  thrill  of  that  first  battle  day, 

When  down  the  lines  they  saw  the  flashing 

steel, 
And  heard  the  guns,  and  saw  the  men  in 

gray; 

The  smoke,  the  heat,  the  furious  battle-cry, 
The  squadrons  charging  where  the  wound 
ed  lie. 

XIX. 

Again  in  sleep  Resaca's  hills  they  see, 
And  Kenesaw,  with  all  its  heaps  of  slain, 

The  batteries,  hid  by  many  a  rock  and 

tree, 

In  their    fierce   dreams    they  see  them  all 
again  ; 

And  Dallas  Woods,  where  quick  a  thou 
sand  fell, 

And  that  dread  field  men  called  "  The 
Hole  of  Hell." 


20  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XX. 

Still  in  their  dreams  Atlanta's  cannon  roar, 
Round  that   fierce   scene   where  brave   Mc- 

Pherson  fell, 
And  Peach-tree  creek,  and  Ezra  church ; 

once  more 
The  siege,  the  charge ;  they  hear  the  awful 

yell, 

Till,  waking,  lo  !  it  is  the  dawn  they  see — 
Their  dream  of  war  the  morning's  reveille.* 

XXI. 

Then  through  the  camps  a  rider  hurries  by, 
"  Great  news — great  news !  "  to  all  the  lis- 

t'ning  host, 

Of  some  great  thing  they  are  about  to  try, 
Some    wondrous    march, — Atlanta    to    the 

coast ; 

And  round  about  the  very  forest  ring, 
The  bugles  echo,  and  the  soldiers  sing. 


*  In  the  armies,  North  and  South,  this  word  was  pro 
nounced  as  if  written  rev"-a-lee'. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  !>1 


SOLDIERS'  SONG. 

"  TT^ALL  in,fallin,  good  news  has  come," 
JL        The  joyous  soldiers  sing ; 

And  down  the  lines  and  up  the  lines 
The  glorious  tidings  ring. 

"  Sherman,  hurrah  !   we'll  go  with  him 
Wherever  it  may  be, 

Through  Carolina's  cotton  fields, 
Or  Georgia  to  the  Sea. 

"Let  every  blue-coat  soldier-boy 
Put  on  his  knapsack  well, 

There'll  be  no  knowing  where  we'll  go, 
Nor  coming  back  to  tell. 

Up  boys,  hurrah  !  the  order  reads, 
'  The  troops  shall  forage  free, 

And  flanking  parties  will  go  out 
When  marching  to  the  Sea.' 

"  What  if  some  soldier  boys  should  fall  ? 
Well,  there's  no  use  to  sigh, 

The  grave  at  last  will  cover  all, 
We  have  but  once  to  die. 


iJ2  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Sherman,  hurrah  !  we'll  go  with  him 
Wherever  it  may  be, 

Through  Carolina's  cotton  fields, 
Or  Georgia  to  the  Sea. 

"  A  thousand  miles  we've  marched  before, 
And  battled  half  the  way, 

What  matters  then  how  many  more 
Be  added  on  to-day  ? 

Look  boys,  hurrah!  'tis  Sherman  comes 
Along  the  lines,  and  we 

O  ' 

Will  cheer  the  General  as  we  go 
Through  Georgia  to  the  Sea." 

*  *  *  #  * 

XXII. 

FINISHED  the  song,  and  every  heart 
beats  high, 
And  horse  and  foot  are  gathering  far  and 

near; 

Polished  each  blade,  and  every  gun  they  try, 
The  army  trains  in  long  white  lines  appear, 
"  March  in   light  order,"  is  the  one  com 
mand, 

"  The  soldiers  all  will    forage  from  the 
land." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  23 

XXIII. 

Burned  every  bridge  between  them  and 

the  North, 
Destroyed    all   roads,   and     fordless    every 

stream ; 
Now  many  a  one  sends  his  last  greetings 

forth, 

To  some  far  home,  now  fading  like  a  dream. 
Not  in  their  arms  alone  they  trust,  but  cast 
Themselves  on  God,  who  leadeth  all  at  last. 

XXIV. 

Like  sailors  turning  to  an  unknown  sea 

Where  no  ship's  keel  has  ever  gone  before, 

Not  knowing  where,  if  any  land  there  be, 

Or  what  may  greet  them    on  that   distant 

shore ; 

So  seems  it  now,  and  only  this  they  know — 
Their  hearts  are  strong,  and  their  great 
leader  true. 

XXV. 

"  Now  cut  the  wires,"  the  leader    said, 

"  but  note 
One  message  first  to  him  we  leave  behind."* 

o 

*  GENERAL 


24  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

And  kneeling  down  upon   the  ground,  he 

wrote, 
"We  march  at  dawn, — the  Sea  we  hope  to 

find." 
He  turned  his    face,  and  through  war's 

*  O 

vistas  came 
A  light  of  glory  shining  round  his  name. 

#  *  *  *  * 

XXVI. 

Far,  far  away,  Atlanta's  children   weep, 
Yet  see,  nor  dream,  what  fearful  fate  has 
done ; 

The  weary  wanderers  of  the  city  sleep, 
Nor  hear  their  foes  nor  any  signal  gun, 

Nor  any  sound  upon  the  midnight  wind 

To  tell  of  all  that  they  have  left  behind. 

XXVII. 

Little  they  dream  of  how  war's  dreadful 

needs 

Have  doomed  their  city  to  some  sudden  fall, 
Or  how  themselves  have  sown  the  awful 

seeds 
They  soon  shall  reap  in  war's  red  carnival. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  25 

They  sleep,  they  dream,  they  see  their 

homes  so  fair, 
The  quiet  moonlight  and  the  roses  there. 

XXVIII. 

They  dream  of  days  when  all  was  sweet 

and  still, 
And    blessed   peace  her    dear  wings    cast 

around, 
When  blossoms  bloomed  by    every  tarn 

and  hill, 

And  violets  kissed  the  sweetly  scented  ground ; 
Of  their  own  homes,  ere  the  invader  came, 
In  sleep  they  smile,  and  call  Atlanta's 

name. 

XXIX. 

But  lo  !  already  smoking  columns  rise 
In  conflagration  o'er  that  fated  town, 

Illumed  the  woods,  and  reddened  half  the 

skies ; 
In   every  street  the  storm  comes  sweeping 

down, 
And  bursting  bombs  hurl  their  destruction 

dire, — 
Altanta's  doom  ;  the  city  is  on  fire. 


26  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XXX. 

Atlanta's  doom !  A  hundred  years  shall  tell 
The  tale  anew  of  that  terrific  morn, 

How  tower  and  dome  and  walls  together 

fell, 
Or  in  fierce  flames  were  to  destruction  borne  ; 

How  in  one  night  all  that  had  been  so  fair 

Perished  and  left  but  ruins  standing  there. 

XXXI. 

And  round  that  place  where  that  fair  town 

had  stood, 

Ten  thousand  graves    told   what   the    cost 
had  been ; 

No  fallow  field,  no  hill,  no  pleasant  wood, 
But  there  some  mangled  soldier's  grave  was 
seen. 

There  blue  and  gray — their  fearful  con 
flicts  done — 

Together  slept,  nor  asked  which  side  had 
won. 

XXXII. 

Once  more  the  sun  illumes  the  horizon, 
Once  more  the  bugles  sound  the  call,  "Fall 
in." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  27 

On  yonder  heights   they  hear  the  signal 

gun, 
The  hour  has  come ;  the  great  march  will 

begin. 
And  from  their  camps  the  steady  columns 

wind, 
In  long  blue  lines, — Atlanta's  left  behind.* 

XXXIII. 

Their  faces  South  along  the  unknown  way, 
With  measured  tread  the  bronzed  veterans  go. 

No  gorgeous  pomp,  no  glorious  array, 
But  plain,  strong  men,  and  feared  by  every 

foe. 

Sublime  they  sing,  and  glorious  anon, 
Of    old    John    Brown,    whose    soul    was 
marching  on. 

xxxiv. 

For  many  miles  the  serried  column  spread, 
On  many  roads  their  daring  horsemen  flew, 

A  sight  it  was,  most  beautiful,  yet  dread, 
War's   wasting    besom    sweeping    Georgia 
through, 

*  Note  2. 


28  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Destroying  all  that  in  its  pathway  lay, 
And  threatening  towns  a  hundred  miles 
away. 

XXXV. 

A  thousand  men  the  railroads  overturn, 
The  red-hot  rails  round  neighboring  trees 

are  bent, 

All  that  a  foeman  e'er  may  use  they  burn  ; 
Flames  marked  each  road  where'er  the  army 

went. 
Thus   through   the    land    the    tramping 

soldiers  wind, 

Rich   fields   in   front,   a    howling   waste 
behind. 

xxxvi. 

Thus  too  each  morrow  with  the  risen  sun 
They  march  again  to  bugle  note  and  song, 

Or  listen,  thrilling,  to  some  foeman's  gun, 
Far  forward  where  the  vanguard  troopers 
throng  ; 

There  at  some  ford  hard  held  by  men  in 


The  daring  troopers  give  their  lives  away. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  29 


DORIS. 

'r  I  ^IS  morn  and  the  horsemen  ride 

J-      Far  on  at  the  army's  van, 
And  Doris  is  at  my  side, 

We  are  galloping  man  for  man. 
"  Doris,  brother,  slow — 

Halt,"  is  the  cry  ahead — 
"  Look  where  the  colonels  go  !  " 

Never  a  word  he  said. 

My  Doris's  horse  is  brown, 

And  my  good  steed  is  gray, 
We've  ridden  them  up  and  down 

On  many  a  battle  day. 
"  Look,  Doris,  see  ! 

Something  is  wrong,  I  know." 
Smiling  he  looked  at  me, 

Looked  Avhere  the  colonels  go. 

The  bridge  is  burned,  and  the  ford 
Ls  filled  with  the  men  in  gray, 

And  under  the  trees  a  horde 
Of  reb^L  that  block  our  way. 


30  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

"  Charge,  cavalry,  charge  !  " 
See  how  the  sabres  gleam, 

Slowly  out  of  the  wood, 

Quickly  down  to  the  stream. 

And  full  in  our  faces  flash, 

As  into  the  creek  we  ride, 
The  glare  of  the  musket's  crash, 

A  gun  from  the  other  side. 
"  Charge,  cavalry,  there  ! 

Charge  on  that  blazing  gun  !  " 
There's  a  shout  on  the  morning  air, 

The  ford  and  the  creek  are  won  ! 

A  shout  on  the  morning  air, 

Till  the  forests  resound  again ; 
We  have  taken  the  crossing  fair, 

And  lost  but  a  dozen  men. 
Doris  ?  comrades  ? — God  ! — 

Doris  ?     It  cannot  be — 
Yonder  upon  the  sod, 

And  never  a  word  to  me  ! 

I  buried  him  in  the  sand, 
And  tarried  behind  a  day, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  31 

Till  the  army  should  come  to  hand 
To  the  place  where  my  Doris  lay. 

"  Cheer,  soldiers,  cheer," 

That's  what  the  General  said  ; 

How  little  they  seemed  to  care 
That  Doris  was  lying*  dead  ! 

My  Doris's  horse  is  brown, 

And  my  good  steed  is  gray, 
But  I  shall  take  his  instead  of  my  own, 

And  now  I  am  on  my  way. 
"  Charge,  cavalry,  charge !  " 

Little  it  is  to  me, 
Whether  I  live  or  whether  I  die, 

Or  whether  I  reach  the  sea. 
#  #  #  #  * 

XXXVII. 

L)NG  in  the  North  the  people  sit  and 
wait, 
In  doubt  and  fear  what  yet  the  end  may  be, 

If  time  or  tide,  heroic  deeds,  or  fate, 
Shall  bring  that  army  safely  to  the  sea. 
"  They  all  are  lost,"  so  rumor  darkly  said, 
"In   the  deep  forest,  and   their  leaders 
dead." 


32  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XXXVIII. 

And  here  and  there   some   soldiers   had 

gone  down, 
Captured  or  killed  if  straggling  from  the 

line, 
For  fiercer  now  the  hearts  of  men  had 

grown, 

And  war  had  scarcely  any  pitying  sign ; 
Life  is  not  much,  that  men   to  it  should 

cling, 
And  death  to  some   seemed  but  a  little 

thing. 

*  *  *  *  * 

XXXIX. 

Rich  was   that   land   in   everything  that 

grew 
On  tree  or  vine,  or  nurtured  in  the  ground  ; 

Its  kindly  sun,  its  sky's  ethereal  blue, 
Its   softening   rains  blessed    all    the  fields 

around. 
From  field  and  vine  the  frightened  owners 

fled, 
From  groaning  barns  with  golden  ears  and 

red. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  33 

XL. 

But  distant  far  the  rich  fields  often  were, 
And,  that  the    army  might  not    want  for 

bread, 

Each  twentieth  man  was  made  a  forager, 
And  so  it  was  the  marching  host  were  fed. 
On  left  and  right,  wherever  farms  might 

be, 
They  roved  the  lands  as  privateers  the  sea. 

XLI. 
Grotesque  their  garb  as   ever  one  could 

find, 
To  camp  they  rode  fantastically  grand, 

In  hats  and  coats  the  planters  left  behind, 
Mounted  on  steeds  such  as  might  come  to 

hand  ; 

Or  else  in  some  rich  farmer's  new  coupe, 
Its  silken   cushions   piled  with  hams  and 
hay. 

XLII. 

And  so  they  went,  these  foragers,  and  far, 
And  each  a  law  unto  himself  became, 

Audacious  men  as  ever  went  to  war, 
Or  found  in  fight  an  easy  road  to  fame. 
3 


34  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

And  many  a  time  in  their  own  reckless 

way, 
They   met   with    death   in    some    far-off 

foray.* 

***** 

»  Note  3. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  35 


FORAGER'S  SONG. 
l. 

THE  bugles  I  hear  and  the  camp  is  astir, 
The  sun  rises  clear  on  the  pine  and 

the  fir; 
Away  let  us  ride,  past  the   vanguard  and 

camp, 

Ere  the  farmer  shall  hide  all  his  corn  in  the 
swamp. 

2. 

Already  the  hills  are  in  purple  and  gold, 
The  dawn,  how  it  thrills  all  the  wood  and 

the  wold  ! 

No  flag  and  no  drum — ah  !  little  they  know 
How  sudden  we  come,  or  the  roads  that  we  go. 

3. 

Let  soldiers  who  will  plod  along  on  their  way, 
But  give  us  the  spice  of  a  far-off  foray : 
A  brush  in  some  lane  with  their  five  to  our 

one, 

And  a  barn  full  of  grain  when  the  scrim 
mage  is  done. 


36  TBS  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

4. 

Then  forward,  hurrah  !  there'll  be  fun  on 
the  farm, 

When  the  cocks  and  the  dogs  shall  have 
raised  the  alarm  ; 

When  the  darkies  shall  cry  to  each  gay  cava 
lier, 

"  We'sglad,  Mr.  Sherman,  to  see  you  is  here." 

5. 
Then  here's  to  the  bummer  who  longest  can 

ride, 

A  sheep  on  his  shoulder,  his  gun  at  his  side ; 
And  to  every  brave  fellow  who  goes  on  before 
To  forage  good  food  for  the  grand  army 

corps. 

6. 
Then   up,  while  the  hills  are  in  purple  and 

gold, 
While  the  dew's  on  the  grass,  and  the  sheep 

are  in  fold  ; 
Let  others  who  will  watch  along  on   their 

way, 
But  give  us  the  morn,  and  a  far-off  foray. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  37 

XLIII. 

SO  day  by  day  the  army  moved  along, 
Flanked  left  and  right  by  these  bold 

foragers ; 

'Tis  now  a  cheer,  or  now  an   army  song, 
Or  bugle's  note  the  soldier's  bosom  stirs, 
And  catching  step  to  that  wild  music's 

strain, 
They  bend  their  faces  to  the  distant  main. 

XLIV. 
Through  field    and  wood  the    blue-coat 

soldiers  stride, 
The  battery  wagons  fill  the  road  between, 

Far  in  advance  the  troopers  gaily  ride, 
The  long   white   trains   fill   up  the  varied 

scene ; 
Like  grown-up  boys  on  some  wild  pleasure 

bent, 

With  swinging  step  the  fearless  soldiers 
went. 

XLV. 

A  sight  it  was !  that  sea  of  army  blue, 
The    sloping  guns    of   the   swift  tramping 
host, 


38  TUE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Winding  its  way  the  fields  and    forests 

through, 

As  winds  some  river  slowly  to  the  coast. 
The  snow-white  trains,  the  batteries  grim, 

and  then,* 
The  steady  tramp  of  sixty  thousand  men. 

XLVI. 

Yet  they  were  far  within  a  stranger's  land, 

A  f oeman  brave  was  round  them  everywhere, 

And  ambuscades    and  swamps  on  every 

hand, 
And  bridgeless  streams,  and  f  oemen  waiting 

there  ; 
Still  feared  they  not  the  dangers  of  the 

way, 
But  trusted  him  who  led  them  day  by  day. 

XLVII. 
And  if,  perchance,  they  saw  him  down 

the  lines, 

To  the  blue  skies  there  went  the  wild  huzza, — 
Amazed    the    rocks    and  the  tall,   silent 

pines, 
That  never  heard  such  music  till  that  day ; 

*  Note  4. 


TIIE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  39 

And  far  away  still  other  columns  hear, 
And  wave  their  flags  and  join  the  mighty 
cheer. 

XL  VIII. 

By  many  a  road  the  swinging  lines  went 

on, 
By   many  a  farm,  through  many  a   hamlet 

rude, 
Where  every  soul  save  some  poor  slave 

was  gone, 

The  village  green  turned  to  a  solitude  : 
Or  if  some,  fearless,  kept  the  lonesome 

place, 
Scorn  marked  each  brow,  contempt  looked 

from  each  face. 

XLIX. 

But  once  unto  a  city  fair  they  neared, 
With  shaded  streets  like  to   some  wooded 

glen, 

And  in  its  midst  a  great  white  house  ap 
peared, 

Within  whose    walls  sat  solemn  whiskered 
men, 


40  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Who  great  laws  made,  and  proclamations 

gave, 
And  ever  cried,  "  Be  brave,  be  brave,  be 

brave." 

L. 

Fearless    they  seemed  as  solemnly  they 

sate, 

Like  men  who  dared  at  duty's  post  to  die, 

But  lo  !  one  shot  outside  the  city's  gate, 

They  took  their  hats  and  were  the  first  to 

fly; 

On  horse,  on  foot,  chief  magistrate  and  all, 
Disgraceful  fled,  and  left  an   empty  hall. 

LI. 

And  in  their   stead  some   blue-coats  sat 

them  down, 

And  merry  made  of  all  things  grave  or  gay, 
And  laws  they  passed  declaring  that  that 

town 

Should,  nolens  volens,  with  the  Union  stay. 
And  many  days  within  that  town,  'twas 

said, 
Men  laughed  at  how  their  Legislature  fled. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  41 

LII. 

And  round  the  camp-fires  many  an  even 
ing* 

The  soldiers  too  talked  of  those  solemn  men, 
Or  else  told  tales,  or  one  a  song  would  sing, 
When   all   would  join   him  in  the  glad  re 
frain. 

And  so  it  was  that  every   camp-fire  had 
Its  tale  to  tell,  its  song  to  make  them  glad. 

LIII. 

And  once,  as  closer  round  a  fire  they  drew, 
A  poet  comrade  gave  his  fancy  flight ; 

Stories  he  told  of  lovers,  false  and  true, 
And  tales    of  war — then  would  have  said 

"  Good-night." 
"  Not  yet,"  they  cry ;  "  enough  of  love 

and  sport ; 

"  Still  tell  of  Corse,  and  how  he  held  the 
fort." 


42  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


WITH  CORSE  AT  ALLATOONA.* 

IT  was  less  than  two  thousand  we  num 
bered, 

In  the  fort  sitting  up  on  the  hill; 
That  night  not  a  soldier  that  slumbered ; 

We  watched  by  the  starlight  until 
Daybreak  showed  us  all  of  their  forces ; 

About  us  their  gray  columns  ran, 
To  left  and  to  right  they  were  round  us, 
Five  thousand  if  there  was  a  man. 

"  Surrender  your  fort,"  bawled  the  rebel ; 

"  Five  minutes  I  give,  or  you're  dead." 
"  Not  a  man,"  answered  Corse,  in  his  treble, 

"  Perhaps  you  can  take  us  instead  !  " 
Then  pealed  forth  their  cannon  infernal; 

We  fought  them  outside  of  the  pass, 
Two  hours,  the  time  seemed  eternal  ; 

The  dead  lay  in  lines  on  the  grass. 

*  Note  5. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  43 

But  who  cared  for  dead  or  for  dying  ? 

The  fort  we  were  there  to  defend, 
And  across  from  yon  far  mountain  flying, 

Came  a  message,  "  Hold  on  to  the  end ; 
Hold  on  to  the  fort."     It  was  Sherman, 

Who  signalled  from  Kenesaw's  height, 
Par  over  the  heads  of  our  foemen, 

"'  Hold  on — I  am  coining  to-night." 

Quick  fluttered  our  flag  to  the  signal, 

We  answered  him  back  with  a  will, 
And  fired  on  the  gray-coated  rebels 

That  charged  up  the  slope  of  the  hill. 
"  Load  double,"  cried  Corse,  "  every  cannon  ; 

Who  cares  for  their  ten  to  our  one  ?  " 
We  looked  at  the  swift-coming  rebels, 

And  answered  their  yell  with  a  gun. 

With  the  grape  from  our  fort  in  their  faces, 

They  rush  to  the  ramparts,  but  stop  ; 
Ah  !  few  of  the  gray-columned  army 

That  day  left  alive  at  the  top. 
On  the  parapets,  too,  lie  our  wounded, 

Each  porthole  a  grave  for  the  dead ; 
No  room  for  our  cannon,  the  corpses 

Fill  up  the  embrasures  instead. 


44  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Again  through  the  cannon's  red  weathei 

They  charge  up  the  hill  and  the  pass, 
Their  dead  and  our  dead  lie  together 

Out  there  on  the  slope  in  the  grass. 
A  crash  from  our  rifles — they  falter; 

A  gleam  from  our  steel — it  is  by. 
"  Recall,  and  retreat,"  sound  their  bugles  ; 

We  cheer  from  the  fort  as  they  fly. 

Once  more  and  the  signal  is  flying — 

"  How  many  the  wounded  and  dead  ?  " 
"  Six   hundred,"     says    Corse,    "  with    the 
dying," 

The  blood  streaming  down  from  his  head. 
"  But  what  of  that  ?     Look  !  the  old  banner 

Shines  out  there  as  peaceful  and  still 
As  if  there  had  not  been  a  battle 

This  morning  up  here  on  the  hill." 
*  *  *  *  * 

LIV. 

"  npELL  on,  tell  on,"  the  eager  listeners 

cried, 

As  each  new  tale  of  love  or  war  was  done, 
And  half  they  cheered  at  Sheridan's  great 
ride, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  45 

And  laughed  or  wept  as  each  new  yarn  was 

spun ; 

Then  all  at  once  they  wrangled,near  and  far, 
As  to  what  thing  had  brought  about  the 

war. 

LV. 

One  said  the  politicians  ;  others  said 
'Twas  cotton,  else  the  niggers  did  it  all ; 

Or  abolitionists ;  had  they  been  dead 
There  never  had  been  any  war  at  all. 

Then  one   spake   up,  who  by  the  fire  had 
lain, 

"  TJiis  is  God's  war,  to  me  'tis  very  plain. 

LVI. 

"  You  all  have  heard,  but  listen,  hear  once 

more, 

Of  that  old  Shepherd  of  New  England's  sod. 
Whose  hero-blood  lies  at  the  Nation's  door 
Because  he  feared  the  everlasting  Go^. 
Curst  was  the  land  for  that  black  deed, 

abhorred, 
For  they  had  slain  an  angel  of  the  Lord." 


46  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  HEA. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  BROWN. 

BY  old  North  Elba's  hill-girt  town 
A  shepherd,  dressed  in  homely  brown, 
Beside  his  flocks  one  morning  stood 
Amidst  the  rough  field's  solitude, 
And  wanting  aught  of  else  to  do, 
His  Bible  from  his  pocket  drew, 
And  read  some  pages,  till  he  saw 
Hpw  straight  and  simple  is  the  law. 

"  Do  unto  others  as  you  would 

That  they  should  do  to  you."     He  stood 

A  little  while  when  he  had  read, 

Then  closed  the  book,  and  prayed,  and  said, 

"  I  have  not  done  this  thing  at  all." 

He  glanced  beyond  the  pasture  wall, 

And  saw  two  bondsmen  hurrying  by, 

Who  had  escaped  from  slavery. 

Far  from  the  South  they  fled  one  day, 

And  good  men  helped  them  on  their   way. 

And  now  the  shepherd  thought  of  this, 

How  far  and  long  he'd  been  amiss, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  47 

How  in  the  land  he  called  his  own 
A  monstrous  evil  had  upgrown 
Till  millions  of  his  kinsmen  stood, 
Bound  hand  and  soul  in  servitude, 
And  he  had  lifted  heart  nor  hand 
To  cleanse  the  foul  blot  from  the  land. 

He  knelt  and  made  to  God  a  vow, 
That  if  some  day,  or  if  somehow, 
The  shepherd  of  North  Elba  could 
Become  God's  instrument  for  good, 
To  drive  the  curse  from  out  the  land, 
He  would  give  all  his  years,  and  stand 
First  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  make 
Their  bed  with  death  for  Freedom's  sake. 
That  moment  round  about  him  shone 
A  light  unearthly  and  unknown, 
But  fair,  supernal,  as  some  star, 
•  That  shines  where  only  angels  are. 
And  then  a  low  voice  seemed  to  say, 
"  Thou  art  my  servant  from  this  day." 


Years  passed,  and  he  who  heard  the  Lord 
Became  an  angrel  of  the  sword. 


48  THE  MAIUJII  TO  THE  SEA. 

Wherever  wrong,  oppression,  dwelt, 
There  his  right  hand  was  quickly  felt. 
Stern,  as  became  his  pride  and  name, 
That  hither  with  the  Mayflower  came, 
Yet  little  children  loved  to  stand 
Beside  his  knee  or  press  his  hand ; 
But  hated,  wronged,  despised  was  he, 
As  was  that  One  of  Galilee, 
And  no  man  dared  to  give  him  bread, 
Lest  vengeance  fall  upon  his  head. 

Only  a  prophet  here  and  there 

With  soul  to  soar,  and  hand  to  dare, 

Saw  in  the  old  man's  shining  sword, 

The  secret  purpose  of  the  Lord. 

Like  some  strong  knight  of  olden  time 

Whom  bards  have  sung  in   many  a  rhyme, 

Alone  he  fought  against  the  wrong, 

Nor  asked  which  side  was  the  more  strong. 

For  well  he  knew  one  in  the  right 

Could  chase  a  thousand  in  the  fight. 

•  ••••* 

Years  passed,  but  never  once  forgot 

The   bondsman's   tears,  the  bondsman's  lot 

Nor  that  fair  morning  in  the  field 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  49 

Where  his  great  vow  to  God  was  sealed. 

And  many  a  sad  slave's  eyes  grew  dim, 

At  thought  of  freedom  and  of  him. 

And  many  a  bondsman's  feet  were  led 

To  lands  where  slavery  never  spread. 

Yet,  wronged  himself,  despised  and  poor, 

He  trod  the  wine-press  o'er  and  o'er : 

Though  full  of  bitterness  the  cup, 

To  the  last  dregs  he  drank  it  up. 

Burned  were  his  barns,  his  corn,  his  wheat, 

His  murdered  sons  lay  at  his  feet; 

To  misery  his  life  seemed  wed, 

A  price  was  placed  upon  his  head ; 

Yet  yielded  not  his  heart  of  steel, 

Nor  questioned  he  of  woe  or  weal. 

"  Who  perils  naught  in  God's  great  strife 

He  is  not  worthy  of  his  life. 

To  live  with  wrong  were  mortal  crime  ; 

Who  fears  is  born  out  of  his  time. 

So  one  more  blow  the  curse  I'll  give  ; 

What  if  I  die  or  if  I  live  ? 

Years  are  not  of  our  life  the  sum, 

Nor  dies  one  till  his  time  is  come. 

Nor  matters  it,  so  if  at  last 

The  curse  of  bondage  shall  be  passed." 

4 


50  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

He  struck.     'Twas  proud  Virginia  felt 
The  blow  the  shepherd's  strong  arm  dealt. 
Where  the  Potomac  winds  its  way 
From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  bay, 
A  little  village  smiling  waits 
The  stranger  at  its  outer  gates ; 
Immortal  grown  since  that  first  blow 
That  laid  at  last  the  monster  low. 
One  autumn  Sabbath  in  the  night 
He  set  the  whole  town  in  a  fright ; 
With  but  a  handful  of  brave  men 
He  scared  the  lion  to  his  den  ; 
But  ere  the  noontide  of  that  day, 
Dead  half  his  comrades  round  him  lay, 
And  ere  night's  shadows  had  grown  dim, 
A  thousand  soldiers  marched  on  him. 
But  spite  of  numbers,  wounds,  and  blood, 
Like  some  chased  tiger  there  he  stood, 
And  fired  his  rifle  till,  the  last 
Poor  chance  of  hope  or  rescue  past, 
He  fell  amidst  his  children  dead, 
Hurling  his  curse  on  slavery's  head. 
And  no  fierce  foeman  where  he  fought, 
And  no  cold  court  where  he  was  brought, 
No  frowning  judge,  nor  lawyer's  scorn, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  51 

Nor  pain  of  body,  bleeding,  torn, 

Could  make  him  one  small  moment  yield, 

Whose  life  to  freedom  had  been  sealed. 


Writhing  upon  his  cot  of  hay, 
Unconquered  the  old  hero  lay, 
Though  pitiless  around  him  stood 
His  captors  thirsting  for  his  blood. 
Unmoved  he  lieard  the  judge's  cry, 
"  Away  with  him,  and  let  him  die." 
Unmoved  and  tearless  saw  them  come 
To  lead  him  to  his  fearful  doom ; 
The  scaffold  saw,  but  not  afraid, 
He  walked  as  if  an  angel  stayed 
Close  by  his  side  and  bade  him  hear, 
Above  the  rabble's  shout  and  jeer, 
Beyond  the  scaffold,  dark  and  grim, 
The  far-off  bells  that  tolled  for  him ; 
Adown  the  drifting  years  to  look, 
And  see  all  chains,  all  shackles  broke  ; 
And  farther,  through  the  drifting  cloud, 
Beyond  the  coffin  and  the  shroud, 
With  his  glad  eyes  the  gates  behold, 
The  Master's  face,  the  crown  of  gold, 


52  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  KEA. 

And  in  the  pearls  encircling  it 
These  words,  for  his  own  glory  writ : 
"  As  unto  them  ye  did,  so  ye 
Have  likewise  done  it  unto  Me." 


LVII. 

is  my  story,'*  said  the  soldier, 
"and 
That's   why  I  think  the  conflict   is   of  God. 

They  did  not  see  the  everlasting  Hand, 
They  heeded  not,  so  passed  heneath  the  rod. 
They  mocked  His  face,  nor  saw  the  holy 

light, 
And  that  is  why  we  all  are  here  to-night." 


LVIII. 

A  white-haired  slave  who  to  the  camp  had 

come, 

Sat  near  the  fire  and  heard  the  story  through  ; 
Silent  he  sat  like  one  who  might  be  dumb, 
But  while  they  talked  his  eyes  still  larger 
grew, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  53 

For   now,  confirmed,  as  if  by  holy  Word, 
The   things  of  which   he   had  but  dimly 
heard. 

LIX. 

And  when  the  moon   her  glory  had  put 
on, 

And  silvered  o'er  the  bivouac  and  the  pines, 
With  step  as  light  as  some  poor  frightened 

fawn 

He  crept  away  beyond  the  Union  lines. 
From  farm  to  farm  his  hurrying  footsteps 

flew 

To   tell  the   slaves  the  mighty  things   he 
knew. 

LX. 

How  down  the  roads  a  glorious  army  went, 

"  A  million  men,  each  with  a  shining  sword, 

Their  camp-fires  lighting  all  the  firmament 

As  might  have  shone  the  camp-fires  of  the 

Lord." 

How  in  the  woods  he  heard  their  trum 
pets  blow, 

"  Like    to    the  horns    that  threw    down 
Jericho." 


54  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

LXI. 

Down  sank  the  moon  and  still  he  hurried 

by. 

Forever  shouting,  "  Lo  !  the  Jubilee." 

The  foeman   heard  the  weird  and  far-off 

cry, 
And  wondered  much  what  this  strange  voice 

could  be. 

The  bondsmen  too,  they  hear  and  under 
stand, 
As  if  it  were  an  angel  in  the  land. 

LXII. 

No    sleep  that    night   for    twenty    miles 

around, 

From  cabin  homes  to  cabin  homes  they  flee, 
And  far  away  the  glorious  tidings  sound 
As  spread  the  waves  of  some  disturbed  sea. 
And  chanting  songs  fill  all  the  midnight  air, 
And  sobs  and  sighs  and  thankfulness  and 
prayer. 

LXIII. 
And  old  men  heard  who  had  not  hoped  to 

live 
To  hail  in  tears  the  coming  of  this  day, 


TflE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  56 

Though  here  and  there  some  flying  slave 

would  give 
A  tale  of  that  great  army  on  its  way  ; 

Or  tell   of  him  whose   death,  the   bonds 
men's  loss, 

"  Had  made  the  scaffold  glorious  like  the 
cross." 

LXIV. 

Up  to  the  house,  the  white  house  on  the 

lawn, 
From  their  rude   cabins  all  the  bondsmen 

hie ; 

Gone  is  the  mistress,  and  the  master,  gone ; 

And  tasks  and  whips,  and  gone  is  slavery  ; 

And  ere  the  dawn  illumines  field  and  dell, 

The  slaves  will  sing  their  long  and  last 

farewell. 


56  THE  MAliCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


LAST    NIGHT  I  HEARD  THE  WHIP- 
POORWILL. 

L\ST  night  T  heard  the  whippoorwill, 
Good-bye  ; 
I  think  I  hear  his  sweet  voice  still, 

Good-bye,  plantation. 
An  angel  brought  some  good  news  round, 

Good-bye ; 

Oh,  don't  you  hear  the  joyful  sound  ? 
Good-bye,  plantation. 

Oh  !  if  you  never  prayed  before, 

Good-bye ; 
Just  now  you's  bound  to  pray  the  more, 

Good-bye,  plantation. 
I  think  I  hear  the  angels  sing, 

Good-bye : 
Oh,  don't  you  hear  the  angel's  wing, 

Good-bye,  plantation. 

Oh,  make  your  garments  clean  and  white, 
Good-bye ; 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  57 

Great  news  has  come  to  you  this  night, 

Good-bye,  plantation. 
Oh,  Massa  Linkum,  make  us  free, 

Good-bye  ; 
Oh,  let  us  hail  the  jubilee, 

Good-bye,  plantation. 


LXV. 

STILL  in  that  forest  round  their  bivouac 
fires, 
The  soldiers  gossip  far  into  the  night ; 

Some    of  adventure ;  some,  their    heart's 

desires ; 

To  far-off  homes  some  send  their  fancy's  flight; 
Some,    of  their  leaders  talk ;     but   most 

they  bend 

Their  thoughts  on  Lincoln — him,  the  peo 
ple's  friend. 

LXVI. 

They  see  him  toiling  in  the  wilderness, 
In  simple  garb,  with  hardened  hands,  but  sure. 
Hard  school  of  toil,  but  blessed  none  the 

less, 
Where  he  may  learn  the  lessons  of  the  poor  ! 


58  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Well  Nature  knew  the  soul  she  had  to  teach, 
And  gave   it  wings  immortal  heights   to 
reach. 

LXVII. 

They  see  him  stand  in  joy  or  toil  the  same, 
And  fearing  not  life's  battles  or  its  scars ; 
The  ladder  see  by  which  he  climbed  to 

fame, — 

To  them  it  seemed  to  lean  against  the  stars, — 
And   on   its  rounds,  writ  in  his  deathless 

hand, 

"  There  shall  no  more  be  bondage  in  this 
land" 


1. 

>r  I  MS  morn  ;  the  bugles  in  the  camp 

J-      Sound  loud  the  reveille, 
And  far  their  notes  through  wood  and  swamp 
Re-echo  merrily. 

2. 

And  from  their  leafy  beds  the  men 

Rise  up  like  wakened  deer, 
And  round  the  bivouac  fires  again 

Make  good  their  morning  cheer. 

3. 

Once  more  the  clarion  note  is  heard  : 
"  Fall  in  ! "  goes  down  the  line, 

The  camp  is  left  to  wind  and  bird, 
And  to  the  murmuring  pine. 


60  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

LXVIII. 

AjAIN  the  fir  trees  that  an  hour  ago, 
Stood   like  lone  ghosts  above  the 

bivouac  fires, 

Illumined  now  with  the  sun's  rising  glow, 
Lift  up  their  heads  like  tall  cathedral  spires ; 
And  far  along,  in  many  a  blue-coat  line, 
The  columns  tramp,  the  sloping  rifles  shine. 

LXIX. 

At  times  through  some  grand  forest  they 

would  pass, 

Whose  lofty  aisles  were  marvels  to  behold, 
Whose  floors  of  moss  and  of  bright  yellow 

grass, 

Like  fairyland,  new  wonders  did  unfold  ; 
And  there  abreast  the  marching  columns 

come 

With  flying  flags,   and  bugle-notes,   and 
drum. 

LXX. 

And  then  one  sings,  "  My  Country,  'tis  of 

thee  ; " 
A  thousand  voices  join  the  glad  rej rain. ; 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  61 

Fit  forest  song,  fit  hymn  to  liberty  ! 
The  woods  resound,  they  are   the    soldier's 

fane  ; 
Forgot  is  war,  'tis  Freedom's  song  they 

sing; 
The  bugles  sound  and  all  the  dim  aisles 

O 

ring. 

LXXI. 

So  marched  they  on,  and  here   and  there 

there  came 
Great  groups  of  slaves,  of  young  folks  and  of 

old, 
Children  and  wives,  the  poor,  the  halt,  the 

lame, 

To  see  the  sights  of  which  they  had  been  told. 
Still  spread  the  tale  with  wondering  accord 
Of  old  John  Brown,  "  The  servant  of  the 
Lord." 

LXXII. 

And  dusky  bondsmen  at  the  roadside  knelt 
And  gave  God   thanks   that  they  had  seen 

this  day. 
No  heart  not  flint  but  at  that  scene  had 

felt 
Pity  and  shame  for  all  that  sad  array  : 


62  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Pity,  that  help  had  come  so  late  to  hand, 
And  shame,  that  slavery  e'er  had   cursed 
the  land. 

LXXIII. 

And  now  again  their  hallelujahs  rise, 
Like  to  that  chant  of  Miriam  by  the  sea ; 

The  Lord  has  heard  the  lowly  and  his  cries, 
His  armies  come  to  set  the  bondsmen  free ; 

And  every  soldier  in  that  mighty  line 

Seems  in  their  eyes  a  being  half  divine. 

LXXIV. 

It  was  a  scene  such  as  the  world  looks  on 
But  here  and  there  in  the  dim  centuries — 
The  armed  host,  that  tramped  its  way  at 

dawn, 
The  lines  of  bondsmen    weeping  on    their 

knees, 
And  praying  but  to  touch  the  garment's 

hem 

Of  men  who  brought  such  glorious  news 
to  them.* 

LXXV. 

Nights  passed,  and  days,  and  every  road 
side  had 

*  Note  6. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  63 

Its  groups  of  slaves  now  bound  for  liberty  ; 

Nor  any  faces  were  there  wholly  sad, 
So  glad  were  they  at  thoughts  of  being  free  ; 

Poor  simple  souls,  their  cup  with  joy  was 
lined 

At  leaving  all  they  ever  knew  behind. 

LXXVI. 
At   times  the  scene  was  picturesque   and 

fair, 
The  ebon  faces  shining-  in  their  joy, 

The   half-clad  forms  of  men  and  women 

there, 
The   half-brown  maids,  with  faces  soft  and 

coy, 

And  wistful   children,  naked  and  forlorn, 
Too  young  to  know  they  were  in  bondage 
born. 

LXXVII. 

And  old,  old  men  with  faces  like  the  night, 
And    locks   like  snow,  that    hemmed  their 

dark  eyes  in  ; 

With  teeth  like  ivory,  so  smooth  and  white, 
And  beards  like  flakes  fresh  from  the  cotton 
gin. 


64  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

None  knew  their  age,  nor  counted  they 

their  years, 
Nor  scars,  nor  blows,  their  sorrows  nor 

their  tears. 

LXXVIII. 
Red-turbaned  matrons  ling'ring  round  the 

scene, 

Their  gay  bandanas  over  breast  and  head  ; 
The  yellow  grass,   no    longer  fresh  and 

green, 
The  autumn  leaves  now  turning  gold  and 

red. 

December  days  already  were  at  hand, 
The  Indian-summer  of  the  Southern  land. 

LXXIX. 

Now  many  a  night,  around  the  soldiers' 

fires, 
In  the  dim  light  was  seen  the  bondsman's 

face, 

Women  and  maids,  young  men  and  gray- 
haired  sires, 

While  tales  they  told  of  their  down-trodden 
race; 


HE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  65 

And  songs  they  sung,  for  music  still  was 

his  ; 
Wrongs  had  not  robbed  the  poor  slaves' 

power  of  this. 

LXXX. 

In  his  worst  hours,   in   all  his  years  of 

wrong, 

Rude  song  had  been  his  only  hope  and  stay  ; 
Nor  day  so  dark  but  that  some  simple 

song 

Could  make  it  light,  and  drive  his  tears  away. 
Simple  of  heart  as  was  his  music's  strain, 
The  gentlest  race  that  ever  wore  a  chain. 

LXXXI. 

And  dance  he  could,  in  his  fantastic  way, 
And  patted  Juba   round  the  fires  at  night — 
Hoe-downs,  and  jigs,  and  many  a  caper 
ing  play ; 

The  soldiers  shouted  in  their  wild  delight. 
The  flick'ring  flames  danced  on  the 

bivouacs  round 
As  if  they  too  had  pleasure  in  the  sound. 


66  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

LXXXII. 

And  cocks  crew  loud  that  had  some  battle 

won, 

For  this,  too,  was  a  soldiers'  camp-fire  sport, 
And  woe  that  cock,  who  when  his  fight 

was  done, 

Had  no  great  news  of  victory  to  report ! 
Into  the  stew-pan  straight  his  body  came, 
Unknown  to  glory  and  unknown  to  fame. 

LXXXIII. 

But,  lo !  for  him,  though   common  barn 
yard  fowl, 
Who  had  wrenched  victory  from  some  better 

blood, 
To  him  the  cheers ;  up  rose  the  mighty 

howl 

As  if  some  Caesar  down  the  columns  rode ; 
Glorious  his  fate,  he  lived,  the  soldiers' 

pride, 
As  on  some  knapsack  he  would  proudly 

ride. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  round  the  camp  the  slaves  like  gypsies 
clung, 


THE  MARCH  TO  TKE  SEA.  67 

And  lived  on  what  their  busy  hands  could 

find 
Of  plenteous  waste,  or  what  the  soldiers 

flung 

To  them  of  bread,  or  food  of  any  kind ; 
Content  if  they  could  only  surely  be 
Flying  away  from  their  sad  slavery. 

LXXXV. 

For  there  was  no  one  in  that  dusky  throng 
Who  did  not  see  in  their  escaping  thus 

A  resurrection  from  the  grave  of  wrong, 
And  to  their  people  God's  new  exodus ; 
So  that  no  hardship  seemed  too  great  to 

stand, 

If  but  at  last  they  reached  their  promised 
land. 

LXXXVI. 

Nor  dared  they  halt,  for  oft  behind  them 

rode 

Men  fierce  of  heart,  enraged  to  see  them  fly 
From  their   hard  masters,   who  in  cruel 

mode 

Might  capture  all  or  slay  them  utterly ; 
And  little  choice  was  there  for  any  one, 
To  die  like  this  or  live  as  they  had  done. 


68  TBE  MARCS  TO  THE  SKA. 

LXXXVII. 

Nor  midst  the  troops  was  every  man  their 

friend  ; 
At  sight  of  wrong  men  were    not  always 

moved  ; 

Some  had  in  heart  no  sympathy  to  lend, 
And  some  the  curse  of  slavery  approved, 
And  little  recked  if  sorrow  might  befall, 
Or  woful  chance  should  put  them  back  in 
thrall. 

LXXXVIII. 

Thus  on  a  time,  beside  a  rapid  stream, 
A  column  slept — it  was  the  early  dawn ; 
And  at  their  rear  a  thousand  bondsmen 

dream 

Of  sweetest  days  now  swiftly  coming  on ; 
But  ere  the  sun  lit  full  the  forest  fair 
The  column  marched  and  left  them  sleep 
ing  there. 

LXXXIX. 

And  then,  as  if  by  cruel  war's  mischance, 
The  bridge  is  cut  ere  they  have  crossed  the 

stream  ; 
They  see  the  rapid  water's  cold  expanse, 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  69 

And  far  away  the  blue-coats'  rifles'  gleam. 
"  Horror !  "    they  cry,   to    sudden  death 

consigned, 

"The    bridge   is  gone,  and  we  are  left 
behind ! " 

xc. 

Broad  was  the  stream,  most  pitiful  the  cry 
Of  that  black  throng  quick-gathered  on  the 

shore ; 
They  see  their  hopes  in  one  dread  instant 

fly, 

Before  them  toil  and  slavery  once  more ; 
Dreading  the  foes,  that  close  behind  them 

ride, 
Wildly  they  wail,  and  plunge  into  the  tide. 

xci. 

Old  men  and  young,  the  weaklings  and 

the  strong, 

Unthinking  rushed  into  the  rolling  stream; 
Like  some  wild  herd  the  panic-stricken 

throng 

Went  to  its  fate  as  in  some  horrid  dream, 
Preferring  death  in  the  cold  river's  waves 
To  going  back  as  bondsmen  and  as  slaves. 


70  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XCII. 

Still  some  are  saved  ;  the  soldiers,  kinder 

than 

The  cruel  fate  that  willed  the  fearful  thing, 
Spring  to  the  stream  and  do  whate'er  they 

can, 

And  many  a  poor  soul  from  the  river  bring. 
Yet  all  that  day,  adown  that  stream,  'twas 

said, 
Men  saw  naught  else  than   bodies  of  the 

dead.* 

*  Note  7. 


PART  III. 

BALLAD. 
1. 

THE  good  old  times  were  bravest  times, 
Alas  that  they  are  by  ! 
'Twas  then  the  land's  best  citizens 
Were  not  afraid  to  die. 

2. 

Then  Country  meant  to  small  or  great 

A  something  to  defend ; 
And  nothing  was  too  dear  to  give, 

No  blood  too  good  to  spend. 

3. 

And  no  one  asked  if  any  time 

Or  often  he  must  fight, 
Or  what  the  cause — 'twas  one  to  him, 

His  country  must  be  right. 


72  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

4. 

Thus  was  it  e'er  Atlanta  fell, 

And  foes  were  put  to  rout ; 
When  the  great  land  was  in  despair, 

And  clouds  hung  all  about. 

5. 

A  message  came  to  Sherman's  men — 

In  cold  and  rags  they  stood, 
And  many  names  of  battle-plains 

Were  written  with  their  blood. 

6. 

"  Oh  !  by  your  hero  past,"  it  said, 

"  And  by  each  honored  brow, 
Vain  is  the  blood  already  spilt 

If  you  should  leave  us  now." 

7. 

Then  spake  a  colonel  of  the  line  : 

"  Now,  men,  do  as  you  may  ; 
Three  bloody  years  you've  battled  through, 

Your  time  is  up  to-day. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SKA.  73 

8. 

"  Three  bloody  years  of  heat  or  cold, 

Of  toil  and  marching  far ; 
A  hundred  battles  you  have  fought, 

And  each  man  has  his  scar. 

9. 

"  If  'tis  your  will,  this  moment  ends 

Your  dangers  in  the  strife  ; 
Say  but  the  word  and  you  go  home 

To  sweetheart  or  to  wife. 

10. 

"  But  if  that  one  or  all  should  still 

His  land's  behest  ooey, 
Let  him  step  forward  as  the  sign 

He  stands  by  it  to-day." 

11. 
i 
Calm  stood  each  soldier  in  the  line 

And  thought  the  matter  o'er ; 
Thought  of  his  sweetheart,  or  of  wife, 
But  thought  of  country  more. 


74  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

12. 

Ten  paces  out  the  colonel  placed 

The  torn  and  tattered  rag. 
"  Who  wills  it,  when  the  drum  shall  beat, 

Steps  to  the  dear  old  flag." 

13. 

"  Eyes  right ;  "  they  looked.    "  Eyes  front ; 
they  turned ; 

Each  other's  face  they  scan  : 
One  tap  of  drum — with  steady  step 

Came  forward  every  man.* 


*  Note  a 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  75 


XCIII. 

HEAVENS  !    such  it  was  that  made 
our  armies  great, 
And  such  it  was   that  made    our  Country 

strong — 

A  love  of  land,  surpassing  home ;  the  state 
Was  men's  first  sweetheart  four  years  long. 
And  faithful  they,  who  standing  in  that  line, 
Stepped  to  the  flag  at  the  grim  drummer's 
sign. 

xciv. 

And  these  were  they  now  marching  to  the 

sea, 
With  their  dead  comrades   in   their  graves 

behind  ; 
Little  they  recked  what  at  the  front  might 

be, 

So  that  their  banners  floated  to  the  wind  ; 
For  well  they  knew,  so  long  as  Sherman  led, 
All  would  be  well,  whatever  lay  ahead. 


76  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

XCV. 

One  time  they  camped  beside  a  rolling 

stream, 
Their  kinsmen  foes  upon  the  other  side, 

In  the  green  woods  they  saw  their  white 

tents  gleam 

And  heard  the  war-songs  o'er  the  glistening 
tide. 

And  in  the  night  they  heard  their  sen 
tinel 

Cry,  "Twelve  o'clock,  midnight,  and  all 
is  well." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  77 


AT  THE  RIVER. 

BESIDE  the  stream  our  bivouac  lay, 
And  by  the  other  side 
The  rebels  camped,  so  close  that  they 

Could  see  us  o'er  the  tide. 
And  twice  a  day  across  the  way 
They  heard  our  bands  of  music  play. 

Green  grew  the  grass  along  the  shore, 

Kissed  by  the  morning  dew ; 
Like  a  sweet  dream  the  silent  stream, 

Coursed  its  deep  channel  through ; 
While  overhead  the  pine-trees  said 
Low  words  as  if  they  worshipped. 

The  soft  winds  lifted  the  sweet  mist, 

In  happiness  elate, 
And  knew  not  if  the  flags  they  kissed 

Were  flags  of  love  or  hate. 
With  sweetest  thrall  God's  dear  winds  fall 
In  benediction  ov^r  all. 


78  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

And  suddenly  the  band  began 

Some  sweet  and  loyal  strain  ; 
From  the  green  woods  the  soldiers  ran 

To  hear  the  glad  refrain. 
From  shore  to  shore,  the  waters  o'er, 
The  gladsome  winds  the  music  bore. 

A  truce  to  war  that  moment  fell 

On  blue  coat  and  on  gray  ; 
Entrancing  music's  heavenly  spell 

On  the  broad  river  lay. 
Nor  sabre's  gleam,  nor  bullet's  scream, 
Disturbed  the  silent-flowing  stream. 

Now  sweeter  still  the  music  plays 

"  My  country,  'tis  of  thee." 
The  blue-coat  boys  their  voices  raise, 

And  sing  it  fervently. 
Sad  hearts  and  sore,  on  yonder  shore, 
The  rebels  love  that  song  no  more. 

Then  Yankee  Doodle  fills  the  air, 

And  slogans  fierce  of  war ; 
And  "  Old  John  Brown,"  the  soldiers  there 

Take  up  the  chorus  far ; 
And  far  and  near  the  blue-coats  cheer 
The  loyal  music  that  they  hear. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  79 

A  pause — and  then  the  band  resumes, 

'Tis  "  Dixie  "  is  the  strain  ; 
And,  hark  !  across  the  stream  there  comes 

The  rebels'  loud  refrain. 
Bronze-faced  they  stand,  the  gray-coat  band, 
And  cheer  and  cheer  for  Dixie  Land. 

"  Then  rally  round  the  flag,"  once  more 

And  loud  the  blue-coats  cry, 
And  mock  them  on  the  other  shore 

With  songs  of  loyalty. 
Till  loud  and  clear,  and  far  and  near, 
Each  side  its  own  war  slogans  cheer. 

Then  all  at  once  the  sweeter  strain 
Of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  is  heard  ; 

Both  camps  join  in  the  dear  refrain, 
And  every  heart  is  stirred. 

And,  blue  or  gray,  each  soul  that  day 

Thought  on  his  loved  ones  far  away. 

For  one  sweet  moment,  and  there  seemed 

No  North  or  South  land  there, 
Across  the  river's  breast  there  gleamed 

The  holiness  of  prayer. 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrong,  and  strife ; 
Each  thought  of  sweetheart  or  of  wife. 


80  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Oh  !    had  some  power  that  moment  come, 

To  keep  that  music's  strain, 
Then  war  and  hate  had  all  been  dumb, 

There  had  been  no  more  slain, 
But  sweet  surcease  of  war,  the  lease 
Of  years  that  bringeth  all  men  peace. 

Still,  long  as  kindlier  things  shall  last 

War's  rude  heart  to  adorn, 
No  touching  scene  will  have  surpassed 

The  pathos  of  that  morn, 
When  blue  and  gray,  in  one  sweet  lay, 
Together  sang  war's  hates  away. 


xcvi. 


STILL,  northward  came  no  news  of  all 
that  host, 

Since  that  great  day  that  saw  Atlanta  fall, 
Nor  any  knew  if   they  should  reach  the 

coast, 
Or  if  in  battle  they  were  captured  all. 

"  Lost  is  that  army,"  still  grim  rumor  said, 
"  Its  legions  captured,  and  its  leader  dead." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  81 

XCVII. 

Yet  every  day  saw  its  great  General  ride 
Down  the  blue  lines  amidst  the  columns' 

cheers. 
Through  forests  dark,  across  savannahs 

wide, 
They  tramped,  nor  thought  of  all  the  Nation's 

fears ; 

Content,  if  only  their  great  leader's  hand 
Should  guide   them  safely  through    the 
unknown  land. 

XCVIII. 

Night  saw  him  silent  in  his  camp  alone, 
Or  walking  slowly  by  his  bivouac  fire, 

When  all  the  army  to  its  rest  had  gone — 

Unwearying  soul  that  never  seemed  to  tire ; 

What   thoughts    were  his    beneath  that 

camp-fire's  spell, 

When  lonely  midnight  round  his  bivouac 
fell? 

XCIX. 

Heard  he  at  times  the  far-off  f oeman's  horn, 
And  planned,  in  thought,  some  battle's  great 
array  ? 


82  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Saw  he  the  charge,  led  he  the  hope  forlorn, 
Through  the  red  coals  that  in  his  camp-fire 

lay? 

Saw  he  afar  the  mighty  conflict  done, 
And  his  own  name,  of  all,  the  glorious  one  ? 

c. 

Saw  he  through  years  the  arch  of  triumph 

rise, 
The  bronzed  steeds,  the  trumpeters  elate, 

The  marble  shafts  that  pierce  the  very  skies 
To  him  whose  name  the  people  have  called 

great  ? 

Hears  he  afar  the  grateful  bells  they  ring, 
The  shouts  of  joy,  the  paeans  that  they 
sing? 

01. 

Night  wraps  him  round  in  her  mysterious 

gloom, 
Above  his  head  the  fir  trees  waiting  stand, 

Silent  and  dark,  as  is  some  funeral  plume ; 
The  glimmering  camp-fire  waves  its  magic 
wand  ; 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  83 

Lone  shadows  creep  about  the  silent  place, 
And  flickering  lights  fall  on  the  leader's 
face. 


en. 

A  form  erect  as  is  some  sturdy  oak, 
Alert,  and  tall,  and  quick  in  every  move, 
A  face  deep  carved,  whose  very  wrinkles 

spoke, 

And  lips  that  told  of  battle  and  of  love. 
Brown,  sparkling  eyes,  that  ever  seemed 

to  shine, 
A  lofty  brow  where  genius  sat  divine. 

cm. 

Men  said  he  was  like  Ca3sar  ;  only  this — 
The   imperial   form    and   face,   indeed,   he 

had, 

But  his  ambition  never  went  amiss, 
And   love    of  glory   ne'er   did   make   him 

mad. 
Great  though  his  deeds,  and  great  though 

his  renown, 
No   Antony  had   dared   to   offer   him  a 

crown. 


84  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CIV. 

At  times  he  heard  some  music's   far-off 

strain, 
Or    snatch    of    song   beside   some   bivouac 

fire, 
And  list'ning  caught  the  gladsome  notes 

again, 
Soft  in  the  night  as  some  seolian  lyre; 

And  joyed  to  think  his  soldiers  free  from 

care, 
Though  he  himself  had  many  a  load  to 

bear. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  85 


MIDNIGHT  IN  CAMP. 

'r  I  ^IS  midnight  in  the  camp, 

J-      And  starlight  in  the  sky  ; 
In  a  forest  cold  and  damp 
Two  mighty  armies  lie. 

A  river  rolled  between, 

Where  the  lone  pickets  stood  ; 
The  camp-fire's  faintest  gleam 

Shone  on  the  silent  flood. 

Out  of  the  darkness  rides 

A  cavalry  brass  band  ; 
Down  to  the  stream  it  glides, 

Down  where  the  sentries  stand. 

Their  clanging  swords  we  heard, 
As  past  the  lines  they  went ; 

We  questioned  them  no  word, 
But  wondered  what  it  meant. 

Low  spake  their  leader :  "  Men, 
To-morrow  is  the  fight ; 

The  rebels  in  that  glen 

Must  hear  us  play  to-night. 


86  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

"  Let's  play  some  loyal  air 
They  may  not  hear  again, 

They'll  know  the  strain  out  there — 
Some  song  of  Sherman's  men." 

And  through  the  starlight  fell, 
And  midst  the  forest  dim, 

Like  some  grand  organ's  swell, 
The  Nation's  battle-hymn. 

Strange  thoughts  were  in  the  breast 

Of  many  a  rebel  there, 
Who,  wakened  from  his  rest, 

Heard  that  last  loyal  air. 

Oh  !  many  heard  that  night 
The  last  song  of  their  life — 

There  was  no  time  to  write 
To  sweetheart  or  to  wife. 

For  morning  saw  them  slain, 

Whose  souls  mayhap  were  stirred 

By  that  one  loyal  strain — 

The  last  song  that  they  heard. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  87 


CV. 

ONE  night  it  was  the  chaplain's  turn  to 
tell 

Some  story  of  great  danger  he  had  seen ; 
For  though  he  preached,  still  he  could 

fight  as  well ; 

In  many  a  fray  and  skirmish  he  had  been, 
And  on  his  breast,  when  back  his  coat 

was  rolled, 
They  saw  a  badge  of  silver  and  pure  gold. 

cvi. 

And  now  beside  a  little  picket  post, 
Far  in  advance  of  all  the  army's  camp, 

Where  but  a  handful  of  that  mighty  host 
Sat  round  a  hidden  fire  within  a  swamp, 
He  stirred  the  embers,  slumbering  low, 

and  then 

Told  them  the  tale  of  Andrews  and  his 
men. 


88  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


THE  RAID  OF  THE  ANDREWS  MEN 

'r  I  ^W AS  April  eighteen  sixty-two, 

-A-      Great  Shiloh's  bloody  day, 
Brave  Mitchell,  with  his  men  in  blue. 

By  Chattanooga  lay. 
Far  and  alone  he  had  come  there, 

With  but  a  thousand  men, 
To  chase  the  rebels  to  their  lair, 

The  lion  to  his  den. 

"  If  I  could  take  the  town,"  he  said, 

"  With  its  high  ridges,  then 
I  would  not  fear  them  though  they  led 

A  hundred  thousand  men  ; 
For  to  the  lofty  mountain  pass 

It  is  the  only  key; 
Who  holds  its  gates,  that  moment  has 

The  whole  of  Tennessee. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  89 

"  There  is  a  railroad  leading  quite 

Into  Atlanta  town ; 
It  brings  the  soldiers  up  who  fight, 

And  takes  the  wounded  down. 
Had  I  some  soldier  bold  enough 

To  cross  yon  river's  bar 
And  burn  the  bridges  on  that  road, 

'Twere  worth  a  year  of  war. 

"  But  who  would  think  to  venture  there 

With  life  so  in  his  hand  ? 
It  were  a  deed  no  soul  would  dare 

For  all  the  Southern  land." 
Low  spoke  a  captain  of  the  guard — 

James  Andrews  was  his  name  : 
"  Well,  General,  'twere  not  so  hard 

As  many  a  road  to  fame. 

"  Give  me  a  score  of  trusted  men, 

Brown  coats,  instead  of  blue, 
And  ere  yon  sun  sinks  twice  again 

The  deed  is  done  for  you. 
This  very  night  in  deep  disguise 

Each  on  some  path  his  own, 
Will  wander  where  the  river  lies 

Behind  yon  mountain  lone. 


90  THE  MAECH  TO  THE  SEA. 

"  To-morrow  night  the  train  will  go 

From  Chattanooga  town, 
And  we  will  ride  to  Kenesaw 

Before  the  sun  is  down. 
And  there  we'll  hide  and  wait  the  train, 

That's  coming  North  next  day, 
And  overpower  the  guards,  and  gain 

The  engine  on  its  way. 

"Be  ready,  you,  to  take  the  place 

By  noon  if  all  goes  well  ; 
How  far  we've  run  the  fearful  race 

Each  burning  bridge  will  tell. 
But  if  no  flame  nor  smoke  you  see, 

Beyond  yon  mountain's  head, 
Fly  quickly  out  of  Tennesee 

And  know  that  we  are  dead." 

That  night,  through  storm  and  forests  damp, 

By  many  a  darkening  stream, 
A  band  of  men  set  out  from  camp 

Under  the  lightning's  gleam. 
Before,  around,  the  foemen  lay, 

The  night  grew  stormier  still, 
But  still  they  kept  their  dangerous  way 

Past  Chattanooga's  hill. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  91 

"  Who  are  the  men  who  ride  with  us 

From  Chattanooga  town  ? 
They  are  not  foemen,  coming  thus, 

Their  garb  our  homely  brown  ? 
Only  their  faces  all  are  pale ; 

Why  are  they  all  so  still  ? 
Some  came  on  board  at  Ringgold  vale, 

And  some  at  Tunnel  Hill." 

So  spake  the  people  in  the  train, 

But  night  came  on  ere  long ; 
Some  talked  of  harvests,  and  the  rain, 

Some  passed  the  hours  in  song. 
But  no  one  guessed  that  when  the  light 

Should  tinge  the  mountain's  crown, 
A  hundred  men  would  be  in  fight 

With  twenty  men  in  brown. 

No  sleep  that  night  for  any  one 

Of  that  heroic  band, 
And  all  were  glad  of  morning's  sun, 

To  bring  the  game  to  hand. 
God !  'twas  a  sight  for  one  who  knew 

What  errand  they  were  on, 
To  see  how  firm  their  faces  grew, 

Their  eyes,  how  strange  they  shone. 


92  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Low  spake  the  leader  :  "  Men,  I  know 

To  count  on  every  one ; 
We  know  what  thing  we've  got  to  do, 

'Twere  good  that  it  were  done. 
Five  minutes,  and  the  train  is  here  ; 

Keep  cool,  as  you  are  now." 
Each  thought  of  some  one  far  and  dear, 

And  wiped  his  moistening  brow. 

Right  by  them  stood  the  foemen's  camp, 

With  many  a  sentinel ; 
The  sun  rose  like  some  mighty  lamp 

And  tinged  the  mountain  swell. 
No  word  is  said ;  no  soul  holds  back  ; 

One  moment  still  for  prayer, 
And  roaring  down  the  railroad  track 

The  train  is  coming  there. 

"  Ten  minutes  here  for  breakfast,  men," 

They  hear  the  trainmen  cry. 
"  We'll  make  it  more,"  said  Andrews  then, 

A  strange  look  in  his  eye. 
He  watched  the  passengers  get  out, 

The  trainmen  hurry  through  ; 
Loud  rang  the  gong,  the  hungry  rout 

Quick  to  the  table  flew. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  93 

"  Now  is  our  time,  if  ever,  men," 

The  leader  softly  said ; 
And  every  eye  was  turned,  and  then 

He  signalled  with  his  head. 
One  glance  along  the  line  he  flung, 

One  glance  his  comrades  gave, 
And  to  the  train  the  twenty  sprung, 

As  if  'twere  from  the  grave. 

Three  men  upon  the  engine  leap, 

Upon  the  tender,  ten, 
And  seven  among  the  baggage  keep ; 

They  are  strong-hearted  men. 
A  pin  is  drawn,  the  train's  in  two, 

One  half  is  left  behind, 
And  quick  the  engine  leaped  and  flew, 

As  if  'twere  on  the  wind. 

The  rebel  soldiers  fire  and  shout, 

The  wheels  fly  on  amain, 
Alarmed,  the  trainmen  hurry  out, 

And  curse  the  stolen  train. 
'•'To  horse,"  cry  some,  and  well   they  need  ; 

And  some  stand  by  and  swear 
That  never  yet  was  such  a  deed 

Of  daring  anywhere. 


94  TffE  MARCH  TO  TBE  SEA. 

"  'Tis  thirty  miles  to  Kingston  town," 

Cries  Fuller ;  brave  is  he. 
"  We'll  catch  them  there,  a  train  comes  down, 

The  mail  from  Tennessee. 
Steam  up  yon  locomotive,  quick, 

The  i  Yonah,'  flying  bird  ; 
We'll  teach  the  Yankees  such  a  trick 

As  they  have  never  heard. 

61  Their  engine  is  the  '  General, ' 

And  she  is  strong  and  fleet ; 
But  <  Yonah  '  is  the  little  girl 

That  never  yet  was  beat. 
Fill  her  with  soldiers,  quick,  for  when 

We  meet,  full  sure  it  is, 
There  will  be  fighting  fierce  with  men 

Who'd  dare  a  thing  like  this." 

On,  on,  they  fly,  the  Andrews  men, 

Quick  as  the  bounding  deer, 
When  through  the  woods  and  down  the  glen 

The  horn  and  hounds  they  hear. 
But  practiced  hands  hold  at  the  bar, 

The  throttles  open  wide, 
The  engine  bounds  and  leaps,  and  far 

For  life  or  death  they  ride. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  95 

They  only  stop  to  break  the  track, 

Or  cut  the  wires  down, 
Or  do  some  thing  to  make  a  wrack, 

This  side  of  Kingston  town. 
"What's  all  of  this?"  the  Kingston  folk 

Cry,  when  they  see  the  ten ; 
"  Here's  Fuller's  engine  roaring  hot, 

But  where  are  Fuller's  men  ?  " 

And  freight  and  mail  trains  crowd  them  thick ; 

There  is  no  room,  alas  ! 
"  Move   out,  you  thieves,"   cried  Andrews, 
quick, 

"  And  let  the  Special  pass. 
For  I  am  bound  for  Beauregard, 

With  powder  and  with  lead  ; 
Who  stops  the  Special  Shiloh-ward 

Will  pay  it  with  his  head." 

That  moment  and  there  is  a  wrack 

And  roaring  far  behind  ; 
For  Fuller's  men  have  cleared  the  track — 

He,  too,  comes  like  the  wind. 
Amazed,  the  people  hear  the  din, 

And  wonder  what's  about, 
For  just  as  Fuller's  train  comes  h\ 

The  Andrews  train  goes  out. 


96  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

And  on,  and  on,  and  on,  they  fly, 

On  six  wheels  or  on  four ; 
The  smoke  pours  out,  the  clouds  go  by, 

The  mighty  engines  roar. 
"  Stop,  quick,  and  tear  the  tracks  again," 

Cries  Andrews,  "  and  load  on 
A  hundred  railroad  ties,  my  men ; 

We'll  throw  them  as  we  run. 

"  More  steam,  more  oil,  pile  in  the  wood, 

Brakes  off,  and  let  her  go." 
Two  strong  men  hold  the  lever  good ; 

Two  strong  men  fuel  throw. 
White  are  the  hot  flames  roaring  there, 

And  white  the  roaring  steam, 
And  white  the  faces  of  the  men 

That  hear  the  "  Yonah  "  scream. 

On,  on,  and  on ;  the  people  stare, 

As  past  the  towns  they  fly  ; 
A  lightning's  flash  is  on  Adair, 

A  storm  is  in  the  sky. 
"  Now,  let  her  run  for  all  she's  worth 

Before  our  fuel's  wet ; 
There  is  no  longer  time  to  halt, 

Nor  any  wood  to  get." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

The  engine  rocks  to  left  and  right, 

The  tender  springs  in  air ; 
By  heaven  !  it  was  a  stirring  sight, 

To  see  them  flying  there  ! 
The  hundred  ties  they  quickly  fling 

Along  the  railroad  track  ; 
But  ties,  nor  logs,  nor  anything 

Can  keep  the  "  Yonah  "  back. 

She,  too,  bounds  roaring  up  and  down  ; 

At  railroad  ties  they  scoff, 
And  fast  as  Andrews  flings  them  down, 

So  fast  they  fling  them  off. 
Nearer  and  nearer  still  they  come, 

Their  musket's  crash  is  red  ; 
"  Pour  on  the  oil,  and  give  her  room," 

Was  all  that  Andrews  said. 

"  Pour  on  the  oil  and  burn  the  car, 

Perhaps  as  we  pass  through, 
Its  flames  may  catch  yon  bridge's  bar 

And  burn  the  bridges  too." 
Lord,  Lord  !  it  was  a  sight  to  see, 

As  any  sight  of  war, 
The  storm,  now  raging  fearfully, 

The  burning,  flying  car, 


98  1HE  MARCH  TO  TUE  SEA. 

The  flaming  at  the  engine's  wheels, 

The  red-hot  musket's  flash, 
The  "  Yonah  "  flying  on  their  heels, 

The  mighty  thunder's  crash. 
Lord,  help  them  !     Look,  the  wheels  stop  still 

Upon  the  slippery  track  ; 
Too  steep  the  grade  of  yonder  hill, 

The  engine  will  go  back  ! 

A  scream,  a  shout,  a  mighty  yell ! 

The  "  Yonah's  "  within  hail. 
"  Too  late,  ye  rebels,  with  your  curse, 

Our  engine  takes  the  rail." 
And  faster,  louder  than  before, 

Down  the  steep  grade  she  runs  ; 
They  hear  the  "  Yonah's  "  angry  roar, 

The  crashing  of  her  guns. 

Oh  !  for  one  little  hour  of  time, 

Some  moments  of  delay, 
So  near  is  glory  unto  crime, 

Failure  to  victory  ! 
In  their  brave  hands  a  nation's  hope 

Hangs  trembling  in  the  scale — 
Lord  !  but  five  minutes  on  yon  slope 

And  they  were  out  of  hail ! 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  99 

But  who  can  fight  with  storm  and  fate  ? 

The  engine  has  stopped  still ; 
The  "  Yonah,"  past  the  Summit  gate, 

Is  roaring  down  the  hill ! 
"  Quick,  spring,  my  men,  to  yonder  wood  ! '' 

It  is  the  leader's  cry, 
And  right  and  left  by  copse  and  flood 

The  twenty  soldiers  fly. 

What  steam  and  storm  could  never  do 

Is  done  with  horse  and  hound, 
And  here  and  there  by  swamp  and  slough, 

The  little  band  is  found. 
God  help  them  now,  an  angrier  foe 

Was  never  theirs  to  meet, 
The  prison  gate,  the  dungeon  low, 

The  scaffold  in  the  street ! 

By  Chattanooga's  hill-girt  town, 

Within  a  shady  glen, 
The  wild-flowers  and  the  lilacs  crown 

The  graves  of  Andrews'  men. 
Earth  holds  their  earth  ;  their  honored  names 

To  children  shall  go  down 
So  long  as  heroes'  names  have  worth, 

Or  brave  deeds  have  renown.* 

*  Note  9. 


100  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


CVII. 

r  I  ^HE  story  closed,  and  for  a  little  spell 

J-      They  who  had  listened  spoke  not 
any  word, 

Nor  thought    if  any  other  there    might 

tell 
A  tale  so  sad  as  this  one  they  had  heard. 

But  soon  they  talked  of  other  things  till 
dawn 

Put  out  the  stars,  and  brought  the  morn 
ing  on. 

CVIII. 

A  few  recalled  the  weariness  of  war, 
And   longed    for    homes  that    they  might 

never  see; 

Little  to  them  was  shoulder-strap  or  star, 
Their  trusted  guns  their  only  blazonry. 
What  theirs  to  hope  ?     A  grave  in  some 

lone  spot, 

Their  valorous  deeds,  their  very  names, 
forgot. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  101 

CIX. 

Nor  was  that  march  one  long  great  holi 
day, 

With  naught  to  do  but  tramp  along  and 
sing, 

New    sights    to    cheer     them    on    their 

wondrous  way, 
And  blazing  camp-fires,  endless  frolicking; 

Full  many  a  night  on  cold  and  sodden 
ground 

Their    only  rest,  their    only  sleep,  they 
found. 

ex. 

Glad  if    some  tree    its  kindly  branches 

lent, 

Some  fallen  trunk  kept  off  a  little  rain, 
Till  the  cold  storm,  its  blast  and   fury 

spent, 
Died  with  the  night,  and  morning  dawned 

again. 
When    round     new    fires   the     veterans 

essayed 
Their  garb  to  dry,  their  cups  of  coffee 

made. 


102  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CXI. 

And  some  recalled  how,  when  the  roads 

were  worst, 
And  trains  mired  down,  deep  in  the  mud 

and  sand, 
When  teams  gave  out,  and  drivers  howled 

and  curst, 
The    soldiers    pulled  the    wagons   out    by 

hand  ; 
How  days  they  tramped  through  muddy 

fields  to  free 
The  roads  for  trains  and  the  artillery. 

cxn. 

How  false  alarms  had  led  them  many  a 

mile; 

The  ignis  fatuus  that  was  never  found  ; 
The  scanty  food,  the    fireless  camp  the 

while, 
The  dang'rous    foe  that  still  was    lurking 

round — 
Of  such  their  speech  ;  of  such  it  still  had 

been, 

Had  not  one  said,  "  Let  us    have  tales 
again." 
#  #  *  *  * 


THL  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  103 


WAR  VIOLETS. 

TWO  days  and  nights  the  battle  swept 
Through  all  the  forest  round ; 
Two  days  and  nights  the  wounded  slept 
Upon  the  sodden  ground. 

Then  came  the  roll-call ;  every  name 

Accounted  for  but  one. 
Some  dead  upon  the  field  of  fame ; 

Some  wounded ;  missing,  none. 

"  Yes,  Barton  Jones,"  the  sergeant  cried. 

The  youngest  lad  was  he  ; 
He  rode  close  to  the  Captain's  side 

In  that  brave  company. 

"Has  no  one  seen  him?     Men,  go  out 

And  search  among  the  dead. 
Look  in  yon  wild  woods  all  about 

Where  last  the  foemen  fled." 


104  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

They  found  him  in  the  shady  glen, 
Hemmed  in  by  many  a  tree, 

Among  the  bodies  of  dead  men 
That  kept  him  company. 

Wounded,  alone,  in  pain  he'd  crept 
The  shady  glen  around, 

To  pick  the  violets  that  slept 
In  the  sweet-scented  ground. 

Kindly  they  bore  him  to  the  rear, 
The  violets  on  his  breast ; 

And  no  strong  man  but  shed  a  tear 
When  he  was  put  to  rest. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  105 


CXIII. 

by  the  words,  no  comrade 
-L          round  that  fire 
But  saw  in  thought    some  far-off   village 

green, 
A    mother    weeping,  and   a   gray-haired 

sire, 

A  youthful  soldier  parting  from  the  scene  ; 
A    sister,  smiling  'twixt    the  tears    that 

flow ; 
A  sweetheart  proud  to  see  her  lover  go. 

cxiv. 

And  farther  still  than  village  green  or 

street, 

They  see  a  glen  where  bluest  violets  lie, 
And  that  fair  youth,  like  to  the  flowers 

so  sweet, 

i  Trampled  and  torn  with  death's  artillery. 
Ah !     North  or  South,  bitter  for  you  the 

day 
When  your  dear  hearts  among  the  violets 

lay! 


106  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CXV. 

Again  the  soldier  told  a  tale  of  one, 
He,  too,  a  boy,  on  Chattanooga's  field, 
Who,  when  the  roar  of  the  great  fight 

was  done, 
Lay  on  the  grass  that    his  life-blood   had 

sealed  ; 
Dying,  he  thought  of  his  heart's  pain   no 

more, 

But  that  dear  flag  that  he  to   triumph 
bore. 


TEE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  107 


ALMOST  UP.* 

TWAS  Chattanooga's  battlefield ; 
The  night  was  filled  with  stars ; 
Two  strong  men  bore  a  soldier  back ; 
He  wore  a  sergeant's  bars. 

A  color-sergeant  of  the  line, 
On  the  high  ridge  he  fell, 

Where  the  old  colonel  gave  the  sign 
To  charge  them  with  a  yell. 

None  braver  climbed  the  battle  hill 
Or  stormed  the  dangerous  pass, 

Than  he,  now  lying  pale  and  still, 
Upon  the  blood-stained  grass. 

Beneath  the  torchlight's  flickering  glare, 
Under  the  starlight  dim, 

The  busy  surgeons  labored  there 
Until  they  came  to  him. 

*  Note  10. 


108  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

"Where  are  you   wounded,  sergeant?" 

said 
The  kind-faced  surgeon.     "  Where  ? 

Right  at  the  top,  sir,"  said  the  lad ; 
"  The  bullet  struck  me  there." 

"  Ah !    boy,  I   know.      But    where  f    I 

mean," 
Again,  in  kind  surprise. 

"  Just  as  I  said,  sir,  at  the  top ;  " 
Steady  his  deep-blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  !  "     The  surgeon  tore 
The  sleeve  from  off  his  arm — 

A  bleeding  gash.     "  Yes,  doctor — there 
Is  what  did  all  the  harm. 

"  I  was  'most  up — right  at  the  top, 
When  the  ball  struck  me  here — 

Yes,  almost  up."     Out  in  the  woods 
He  heard  his  comrades  cheer. 

And  faint  he  heard  the  pearly  gates 
Swing  outward  on  the  air, 

And  still  he  whispered.  "  Almost  up — 
The  flag  was  almost  there." 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  109 


PONCE  DE  LEON. 


the  woods  and  the    smoke 
intense, 

Charged  the  lines  of  the  regiment, 
Over  the  field  and  the  low  stone  fence  ; 
And  the  old  dog  went  where  the  Captain 

went. 

Once  we  halted.     Lord  !  how  hot  ! 
Grape  and  canister  filled  the  air  ; 
The  Captain  fell,  and  I  saw  the  spot, 

And  we  all  went  back  ;  but  the  dog  stayed 
there. 

Through  the  fight  of  the  afternoon, 

Kept  he  watch  by  his  master  dead, 
Through  the  fight  till  the  sun  went  down, 
And  the  new  moon   rose  on  the  field  in 

stead. 

"  Sound  a  truce,"  said  the   General  ;  then, 
"  Gather    our    wounded    from    off    the 
plain." 


110  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

With  biers  and  spades    went  the  burying 

men 
Out  in  the  moonlight  amongst  the  slain, 

Till  they  came  to  one  with  a  Captain's  bars. 

Far  at  the  front,  by  the  fence,  he  died  ; 
And  they  saw  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and 
stars, 

The  old  dog  dead  by  the  Captain's  side. 
In  the  field,  in  the  starlight  there, 

Under  the  flag  they  had  died  to  save, 
Under  the  moonlight,  fresh  and  fair, 

They  buried    them    both    in  a  soldier's 
grave. 

Softly  and  gently,  within  the  ground  ; 

War's  fierce  terror  has  still  amends. 
Some  words  they  wrote  by  the  little  mound : 

"  Sacred,  forever,  to  two  good  friends." 
Ponce  de  Leon,  the  St.  Bernard, 

True  in   life,  and  in  death  more  true, 
In  the  time  of  the  great  reward, 

He  will  stand  at  the  right  hand,  too. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  Ill 


CXVI. 

OTILL  marched  the  soldiers,  journeying 

on  and  on  ; 
A  bold,  brave  foe  hung  round  them  left  and 

right ; 
The   little  towns,  with  half  their  people 

gone, 

Looked  in  amazement  at  the  wondrous  sight ; 
Some  saw  with  scorn,  a  few  with  secret 

tears, 

The  stars  and  stripes  they  had  not  seen 
for  years. 

cxvu. 

For  years  that  flag   had  been  a  hidden 

thing ; 

Men  had  not  dared  unfurl  that  banner  theie  ; 

No  little  children  now  were  taught  to  sing 

"  God  bless  our  land ! "   The  loyal,  in  despair, 

Whispered  their  griefs ;    no  soul    Uoud 

dare  pray 
For  his  own  country  in  that  awful  day. 


112  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CXVIII. 

And  now  they  see  this  mighty  army  come, 
Like  some  vast  cloud,  with  vengeance  in  its 

train  ; 
With   woful    faces,  trembling    lips    and 

dumb, 

Once  more  they  hear  the  loyal  bugle's  strain  ; 
For  one  short  day,  above  the  village  gate, 
Waves  the  old  flag  they  have  been  taught 
to  hate. 

CXIX. 

Waves  the  old  flag — and  then  the  bitter 

end  : 
The  torch,  the   flame;  their  homes,  before 

the  night, 
With  the  soft  winds  their  ashes  quickly 

blend ; 
War's  whirlwind  stoops  to  tear  them  in  its 

flight, 

Arid  morning  comes  to  see  a  naked  land, 
And  trampled  fields,  where  smoking  ruins 

stand.* 

*  Note  11. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  113 

CXX. 

Maddened  to  rage  the  Rebel  horsemen  fly 
And   fling   themselves   upon   their  foemen 

there  ; 

Useless,  they  only  find  a  place  to  die ; 
Their     own     brown     fields     become    their 

sepulchre. 
For  them  no  household  fires  again  may 

burn, 
No  village  bells  ring  out  their  glad  return. 

cxxi. 

In  some  lone  swamp,  or  by  some  roadside 

drear, 
In  years  to  come  some  epitaph  will  tell 

How,  "  In  this  mound  alone  is  sleeping  here 
A  soldier  boy  they  buried  where  he  fell." 
Enough  the  words, whichever  side  he  stood : 
"  He  thought  it  right, — lies  here,  and  God 

is  good." 
•         •         •         •         •  • 

CXXII. 

Oft,  too,  by  night  the  columns  hurried  on, 
Hearing  dull  cannon  on  some  far-off  flank, 


114  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

And  though  their   feet    had    journeyed 

since  the  dawn, 

And  here  and  there  one  at  the  roadside  sank, 
Still   on  they   marched,    till    some    dark 

river's  breast, 
Its  bridges  burned,  gave  them  a  moment's 

rest. 

CXXIII. 

Then  came  a  scene,  most  weird  and  won 
drous  grand  : 
A  thousand  torches  in  the  forest  stood ; 

A  thousand  men  with  axe  or  saw  in  hand 
Hew  down  the  trees,  and  bridge  the  rolling 

flood ; 
And  planks  and  ropes  from  the  high  banks 

are  strung, 
And  light  pontoons  across  the  water  flung. 

cxxiv. 

Throughout  the  darkness  flares  the  pine- 
knot's  light, 
And  shadowy  forms  are  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

The  dark  stream  gurgles  off  into  the  night, 
The  bonfires  glimmer  on  the  sands  below; 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  115 

Gigantic  seem  the  horsemen  as  they  ride 
Out  of  the  woods,  down  to  the  river  side. 

cxxv. 

The  bridge  is  finished,  forward  moves  the 

line, 
With  steady  step  to  the  low-beating  drum, 

With  glare  and  smoke  from  out  the  dark 
ling  pine, 

'Neath  flick'ring  lights  the  silent  columns 
come. 

The  stream  is  crossed,  the   dying  torches 
fall 

On  the  wet  sand,  and  darkness  covers  all. 

cxxvi. 

Sometimes  again  the  march  was  lightly 

done; 

Steady  the  tramp,  commencing  with  the  morn, 

E'er  yet  the   light  of  the  fair  rising  sun 

Tinged  half  in  gold  the  dry  leaves  of  the 

corn. 
Then  noontide  saw  them  by  some  shaded 

stream, 
In  bivouac  resting,  and  their  fires  agleam. 


116  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


CXXVII. 

On    grassy  knolls  some  sleep  the    long 

hours  through  ; 
With  dice  and  cards  some  chase  the  time 

away, 

Or  fighting  cocks,  or  football ;  not  a  few 

In  dance,  or  tale,  or  music  find  their  play; 

For  long  as  war  is  of  the  world  a  part, 

So  long  will    music  move    the  soldier's 

heart. 

CXXVIII. 

Their  muskets  stacked  in  long,  clear  rows 

of  steel, 
The  sun's  slant  rays  on  polished   bayonets 

shine ; 

One  bugle  call  or  one  loud  cannon  peal, 
And  every  soldier  had  been  up  in  line. 
The  drum's  long  roll,  one  cry,  "  Fall  in  !  " 

and  then 
That  darkling  ™ood  had  turned  to  armed 

men. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  117 

CXXIX. 

Quick  fly  the  hours  j  the  sunset  crimsons 

by; 

Night  comes,  the  woods  with  camp-fires  are 

ablaze, 
In  smoke  the  glimmering  branches  sway 

on  high, 

Illumed  yet  ghostly  in  the  bivouac's  rays. 
The  tattoo  sounds,  the  guards  their  vigils 

keep ; 

"Tattoo,"    "Lights    out,"   and    all    thp 
soldiers  sleep. 

cxxx. 

The  soldiers  sleep ;   and  yet,  perchance, 

ere  morn, 
Some  fierce  surprise  falls  on  th'  unconscious 

men  ; 
Some  cannon's  boom  on  the  night  air  is 

borne, 
Or  flashing  rifles  rattle  in  the  glen ; 

Then  beat  the  drums,  and  all  the  camp's 

a-din, 
The    bugles    sound,  the    sergeants    cry, 

"  Fall  in  !  " 

***** 


118  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


KILPATRICK'S    CAVALRY   CHARGE 

QUIET  that  night  in  our  camp  we  lay. 
The  pine  trees  softly  above  us  stirred ; 
The  brook  sang  low  on  its  winding  way  ; 
Only  these  were  the  sounds  we  heard. 

Suddenly,  and  there  came  a  flash, 
Blazing  red  in  the  wooded  glen ; 

And  that  quick  moment  a  cannon's  crash, 
Into  the  midnight  among  our  men. 

Little  we  needed  the  bugle's  blare, 
Little  the  noise  of  the  scaring  drum, 

For  quick  in  line  we  were  standing  there, 
Waiting  the  foe  if  he  dare  to  come. 

Long  we  stood  in  the  forest  gloom, 

Silence  only  along  the  line, 
Save  when  a  foeman's  gun  would  boom 

And    tear    the   limbs   from    a  trembling 
pine. 


THE  MAUCtt  TO  THE  SEA.  119 

Fair  was  the  dawn  when  at  last  it  came, 
Glowing  and  red  o'er  the  field  it  lay  ; 

And  beyond  the  wood,  by  its  tinted  flame, 
We  saw  a  line  of  the  men  in  gray. 

How  they  looked  when  we  saw  them  there, 
Loading  their  guns  for  our  men  in  blue  ! 

And  they  burst  their  shells  on  the  Sabbath 

air; 
Over  our  heads  in  the  woods  they  flew. 

Over  our  heads,  and  we  laughed  at  first, 
Till  their  lines  broke  out  in  a  spluttering 

flash, 

And  a  hurry  of  musketry  from  them  burst, 
And  we  thought  no  more  of  the  cannon's 
crash. 

"  Cavalry,  mount,"  came  the  clear  command, 
As  down  before  us  Kilpatrick  rode ; 

His  saber  glistened  in  his  right  hand, 
Over  his  shoulders  his  fair  hair  flowed. 

"We  will  drive  them  out  of  that  field  and  lane. 

Steady  !  "  he  said,  to  the  waiting  line  ; 
And  he  looked  straight  into  our  eyes  again, 

As  we  waited  only  to  see  his  sign. 


120  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Oh  !  the  dawn,  it  was  fair  to  see ; 

Rosy  and  fresh  on  the  fields  it  fell ; 
And  clear,  that  moment,  as  clear  could  be — 

Oh  !    we  heard  the  voice    of  Kilpatrick 
well! 

"  Front  rank,  sabers,  and  pistols,  rear : 
Forward,  gallop,  and  charge  !  "  he  cried. 

Over  the  ditch  and  the  fences  near, 

Straight  at  the  guns  of  the  foes  we  ride. 

Down  the  hill  and  across  the  brook, 

Up  the  slope  like  a  hurricane  ; 
The  very  ground  with  our  squadrons  shook, 

And  charging  troopers  fell  thick  as  rain. 

Over  the  fence  and  the  barricades, 

Dashing,  cheering,  we  cut  our  way, 
And  we  hear    the    thud  of    our    slashing 

blades, 

On  the    stubborn  heads    of  the  men  in 
gray. 

Smite  and  pound  on  the  rebel  head, 
Strike  and  thrust  at  the  blue  dragoon, 

Till  the  desperate  gunners  all  are  dead — 
They  are  lying  still  as  a  day  in  June. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  121 

"  Now,  right  about  S  "  for  the  day  is  ours ; 

Back  to  the  woods,  for  the  lane  is  won  ; 
But  oh !  the  grass  and  the  withered  flowers 

Are  red  with  blood  when  the  charge  is 
done  ! 

Once  again  in  the  line  we  stand, 

O  ' 

And  down  before  us  Kilpatrick  rides  ; 
His  saber  glistens  in  his  right  hand, 

And  his  face  glows  fair  like  a  new-made 
bride's. 

Cheer  after  cheer  as  he  rides  along  ! 

But  the  soldiers  lying  dead 
Will  never  know  of  the  cheers  and  song, 

Or  the  words  Kilpatrick  said.* 


*  Note  12. 


122  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


CXXXI. 


A  ND  now  it  seemed  as  if  they  could  go 

Forever  marching  in  this  wondrous  way  ; 
The  morning's  foe  at  evening  would  be 

gone; 

Nothing  there  was  that  could  that  army  stay. 
With    lightsome   step  they  marched,  and 

cheered  and  sang ; 
The  hills  re-echoed,  and  the  forests  rang. 

cxxxu. 

And  all  were  happy,  for  right  well  they 

knew, 
That  march  once  done, — the  South  cut  clean 

in  twain, — 
Sweet  peace  would  come,  the  war  would 

then  be  through, 

A.nd   they   would   see    their   far-off  homes 
again. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  123 

And  so  with  hopes  like   happy  children 

they 
Marched  laughing  on,  and  war  was  almost 

play. 

CXXXIII. 

Till  on  a  day  they  fell  upon  a  land, 
Low,  flat,  and  sterile  ;  void  of  everything 
For  man  or  beast.     The  cold  unpitying 

sand 
To   their   tired   ankles  went;  nor  budding 

spring 

Nor  summer  made  that  region  wholly  fair, 
Nor  pierced  the  sun  the  dull,  dark  forests 
there. 

cxxxiv. 

Now  more  the  foe  pressed  hard  at  every 

stream, 

Held  every  bridge,  in  every  swamp  lay  hid ; 
In  the  swamp's    twilight  and  its    murky 

gleam, 

No  soul  could  see  of  anything  they  did, 
Nor  hear  alarm,  till,  suddenly,  a  flash, 
A  cry  of  pain,  and  a  fierce  musket's  crash. 


124  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

i 

cxxxv. 

Hungry  and  tired,  they  who  had  hoped 

before, 
Now  feared  a  little  what  might  happen  yet ; 

For  little  now  the  wagons  had  in  store, 
In  these  last  days  that  seemed  so  desperate. 
And  all  men  knew  that  hurrying  armies 

could 

Still  cut  them  off  in  some  great  swamp  or 
wood. 

CXXXVI. 

But  on  a  day,  while  tired  and  sore  they 

went, 
Across  some  hills  wherefrom  the  view  was 

free, 
A  sudden   shouting   down  the  lines  was 

sent ; 
They  looked  and  cried,  "  It  is  the  sea  !  the 

sea  !  " 
And  all  at  once  a  thousand  cheers  were 

heard, 
And   all   the    army   shout   the    glorious 

word. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  125 

CXXXVII. 

Not    since    that    day     when    the   great 

Genoese 

Placed   his  proud   feet   upon  a   new-found 
world, 

Had  such  glad  shouts  gone  up  to  heaven 

as  these, 

When   to  the  breeze  the  old  flag  was  un 
furled, 

And  all  the  army  in  one  mighty  song 

Passed    the   glad  news,  "It  is  the  sea" 
along. 

CXXXVIII. 

Bronzed  soldiers  stood    and   shook  each 

other's  hands  ; 

Some  wept  for  joy,  as  for  a  brother  found  ; 
And  down  the  slopes,  and  from  the  far- 
off  sands, 
They  thought  they  heard  already  the  glad 

sound 

Of  the  old  ocean  welcoming  them  on 
To   that    great  goal  they  had  so  fairly 
won. 


126  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CXXXIX. 

High  waved  the  flags,  and  every  bugle 

played  ; 
And  silver  bands  whose  notes  had  not  been 

heard 
For  days,  in   the  dull  forests  where  we'd 

strayed, 
Where  joyous  songs   our  hearts  had  never 

stirred, 
Poured  forth  their  notes  ;  yet  little  heeded 

we, 
Our  souls  too  busy  with  that  glistening 

sea. 

CXL. 
Now  all  at  once  things  sad  turned  into 


The  very  swamps  seemed  changed  to  fairy 

green, 

No  longer  dull  the  fields  about  us  lay, 
Turned  to  enchantment  the  inglorious  scene  ; 
Forgot  the  weariness,  the  toil,  the  pain  ; 
Forgot   were    e'en    our    hapless    buried 
slain. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  127 

CXLI. 

To  see  this  ocean  !  that  was  joy  supreme  ; 
Not  in  our  lives  had  ever  we  before 

Seen  such  a  sight ;  and  like  some  fairest 

dream 
Sped  the  quick  moments,  for  that  shining 

shore 
To  our  glad  hearts,  and  to  our  wondering 

eyes, 
Gleamed  like  the  storied  gates  of  Paradise. 

CXLII. 

Some  swore  they  tasted  sea-salt  in  the  air, 
Some  strained  their  eyes  at  little  specks  far 

off, 
And  called  them  ships,  and  looked   for 

sailors  there  ; 
And   some   saw   fleets   in   the   deep    ocean 

trough, 
Laden  with  bread  and  all  good  cheer  that 

we 
Could  crave,  who  brought  such  glorious 

victory. 


128  THE  MARCH   TO  THE  SEA. 

CXLIII. 

At  times  we  thought  we  heard  the  very 

waves, 
Though  distant  miles  the  white  sea  still  from 

us, 
Or   the  low    murmuring   by   the    shore, 

where  laves 

The  water,  restless  as  mankind  ;  and  thus 
Our  hearts  went  faster  than  our  feet,  and 

none 
But   said,    "  At   last   the   weary   war   is 

done ! " 

CXLIV. 

But  lo!   behold!    just  as   the  end   was 

near, 
A  cannon  boomed  across  the  army's  way ; 

And  by  the  sea  we  plainly  saw  appear 
A  frowning   fort,  strong   held  by  men  in 

gray, 

And  round  about  it  palisades  so  high, 
Who  charged  that  fort  might  surely  fear 

to  die. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  129 

CXLV. 

Black,  belching  guns  frowned  on  its  par 
apet  ; 

And  though  we  wept  to  see  the  sweet  sea's 
face, 

The  longed-for  goal  was  not  accomplished 

yet, 

And  that  fair  shore  might  be  our  burial 
place. 

Then,  suddenly,  our  leader's  form  ap 
peared, 

The  proud  flags  waved,  and  all  the  army 
cheered. 

CXLVI. 

Long  looked  he  there  out  on  the  whiten 
ing  sea, 
Scanning  in  vain  some  little  trace  to  find 

Of  friendly  fleet,  if  any  there  might  be, 
Or  signal  flag,  upon  the  evening  wind. 
But  fleet,  nor  flag,  nor  ship  was  anywhere, 
No  sign  to  tell  they  knew  that  we  were 

there. 
9 


130  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CXLVII. 

That  hour  held  fate,  and  well  our  leader 

knew, 
One    short     delay    and   all    could   still    be 

lost — 
All  that  we  hoped,  and  all  we  had  come 

through, 
And  his  own  fame,  and  all  that  marching 

host. 
Anxious   he    gazed   into   the    speechless 

space ; 
And,  breathless,  looked  we  in  our  leader's 

face. 

CXLVIII. 

"  Men,"  then  said  he,  "  yon  fort  that's  in 

our  course, 

This  very  night  must  come  into  our  hands." 
Then  cheered  we  all,  and  many  clamored 

hoarse, 

To  have  that  honor,  in  the  woods  and  sands 
To  storm  the   fort,   and    ere   the  sun  be 

set 
Wave  the  old  flag  above  its  parapet. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  131 

CXLIV. 

Then  quiet  marched  five  thousand  veterans 
The  dark  woods  through,  by  dauntless  Hazen 

led,— 
Through    half-cleared   fields,  by   swamps 

and  boggy  fens, — 

While  from  the  fort  the  shells  shrieked  over 
head; 

Till  all  at  once  the  bugles  sounded  clear, 
"  On  to  the  works  !  "     We  answered  with 
a  cheer. 

CL. 

The  dear  flags  waved,  and  all  the  lines 

went  on, 

Toward  belching  guns,  past  those  high  pali 
sades, 
In  the  dark  smoke  ;  one  moment  they  were 

gone, 
And  then  one  cry,  one  mighty  charge,  they 

made  ; 
Into    the    fort    a    thousand     blue-coats 

sprung  ; 
The  stars  and  stripes  above  its  walls  are 

flung  !  * 
•         •••••• 

*  Note  13. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 
CLI. 

Bright  shone  the  moon  upon  the  fort  that 

night, 
And  bright  it  shone  upon  the  glistening  sea; 

And  far  below  we  saw  by  its  pale  light, 
Our  ships  of  war  that  lay  there  silently  ; 

And  on  the  faces  of  our  dead  it  shone — 

Blue  coat  or  gray,  to  them  it  was  all  one. 

CLII. 

And  all  that  night  beneath  the  Southern 

moon, 

With  dead  around  us,  all  so  patiently, 
We  sat  and  talked  of   that  fierce  battle 

noon, 

Until  we  saw  the  sun  rise  from  the  sea ; 
And  when  it  rose  in  all  its  glory,  then 
We  sang  the  song  of  Sherman   and  his 
men. 


THE  MARCH.  TO  THE  SEA.  133 


SONG    OF    SHERMAN'S    MARCH   TO 

THE    SEA. 

OU  R    camp-fires    shone    bright  on    the 
mountains, 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
While  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe, 
When  a  rider  came  out  from  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted,  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready, 
For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea." 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman, 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men. 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And  that  blessings  from  Northland  would 
greet  us 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


134  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

Then  forward,  boys,  forward  to  battle, 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
And  we  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca ; 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day  ! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free, 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  stand 
ards, 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 


Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor  flag  falls ; 
Yet  we  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree  ; 
We  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


Oh !  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 
That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 

When  Sherman  said,  "  Boys,  you  are  weary  ; 
This  day  fair  Savannah  is  ours !  " 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  135 

Then  sang  we  a  song  for  our  chieftain, 
That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 

And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 
When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea.* 


136  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


CLIII. 

IT  was  the  end,  and  yet  one  march  the 
more ; 

The  Carolinas  heard  our  columns'  tread ; 
Th'  unhappy  town  that  first  began  the 

war 

In  ashes  lay,  with  half  its  soldiers  dead. 
On   land    and  sea   the    glorious    tidings 

swell, 

And  Sumter  rose  the  day  that  Charleston 
fell. 

CLIV. 

And  proud  Columbia,  too,  in  ruins  lay, 
And  shrieking  shells  passed  through  its  halls 

of  state, 
Then  all  bethought  them  of  that  other 

day 

When  in  these  halls  Secession  sat  elate. 
Now,  too,  on  far-off  Appomattox  field 
Grant  hurls  the  storm,  and  soon  the  foe- 
men  yield. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  137 

CLV. 

Then  came  that  deed,  ah  !  wofullest  of 

all, 
That  dreadful  deed,  that  treason's  self  o'er- 

leapt ; 

Black  night  of  nights  that  saw  great  Lin 
coln  fall, 
The  one  great  soul  for    whom  the  whole 

world  wept. 
First,  peace  he  saw,  then  laid  his  troubles 

by, 

Crowned  by  mankind  with  immortality. 

CLVI. 

It  was  the  end  ;  in  yonder  Capital 
The  trumpets  sounded  for  one  last  parade ; 
Far  in  the  South  the  veterans  heard  the 

call ; 

For  one  last  tramp  the  army  is  arrayed. 
Five  hundred  miles,  the  march  is  quickly 

o'er, 

Their  white  camps  gleam  by  the  Potomac's 
shore. 


138  THE  MARCH  TO  THJS  SEA. 

CLvn. 

And   on   a   morn,  a   wondrous   morn  in 

May 

It  was  proclaimed  that  through  the  Avenue 
The  mighty  host  should  take  its  glorious 

way, 

And  all  the  land  as  one  be  there  to  view ; 
Not    in   all   time   had    such   a   sight,   I 

ween, 
Of  Freedom's  hosts  in  the  wide  world  been 

seen. 

CLVHI. 

From  many  a  field  the   veteran   armies 

came, 
And  East  and  West  went  glorious  side  by 

side ; 

Together  felt  the  thrilling  joys  of  fame, 

The  people's  heroes  and  the  nation's  pride ; 

Together  now   their  long  blue   columns 

wheel 
Up  the   long   street,  one   sea  of  sloping 

steel. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  139 

CLIX. 

Two    days  they   marched  on   that  great 

Avenue  ; 

Two  days  they  cheered,  that  mighty  multi 
tude, 

And  flowers  and  wreaths  upon  their  heads 

they  threw ; 

And  all  men    called    the   land's   defenders 
good; 

And  all  gave  thanks,  now  the  great  war 
was  done, 

To  see  these  men  who  had  such  victories 
won. 

CLX. 

But   most   of  all  that   moved    beholders 

then, 
Were  the  freed  bondsmen  marching  two  by 

two, 
Not  captive  wives  and  chained  and  scowling 

men, 

Such  as  of  old  the  Roman  triumphs  knew, 
But  men  made  free,  their  days  of  bondage 

o'er, 
And  all  rejoiced  that  slavery  was  no  more. 


140  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 

CLXI. 

And  some  shed  tears,  glad,  joyous  tears, 

to  know 
What  things   unhoped  had   come  about  at 

last; 

He  was  raised  high  who  yesterday  was  low  ; 
Round  the  poor  slave  the  Nation's  arm  was 

cast 
Long  years  the  land  had  passed  beneath 

the  rod  ; 
Now  through  it  all  men  saw  the  hand  of 

God. 

CLXII. 

And  marching  thus  the  glorious  armies 

went, 
Never  again  to  muster  in  review ; 

Past  the  great  leaders,  past  the  President, 
Swayed  crests  of  steel  upon  great  waves  of 

blue. 
And  Sherman  !     Once  his  face  his  soldiers 

saw, 
And  lingering  looked,  and  gave  one  last 

hurrah ! 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  141 

CLXIII. 

One  last  hurrah !     To  him  that  parting 

cheer 
Was  more  than  fame  and  glory  ever  were. 

What  if  he  wept  ?    It  was  a  soldier's  tear ; 
They  were  his  comrades  who  were  marching 

there. 
Long,  long  he  looked,  moved  with  a  mighty 

spell, 

Then,  silent,  waved  a  long,  a  last  fare 
well. 

CLxrv. 

But  in  her  shrines  where  glory  loves  to 

keep 

Record  of  souls  she  dedicates  to  fame, 
There  in  her  marble,  pure,  clean-cut,  and 

deep, 

Behold !  men  see  the  letters  of  his  name  ; 
And  underneath,  in  characters  as  free, 
"  To  them  who  marched  with  Sherman 
to  the  sea" 


142  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


ADIEU. 
1. 

'r  I  ^IS  said  that  once  in  times  of  old 

-L      A  wizard  touched  a  land, 
And  turned  its  hillsides  into  gold, 
To  silver  all  its  sand. 


A  kindlier  wizard  cast  a  spell 

Upon  the  South,  and  lo  ! 
Where  once  war's  dreadful  harvests  fell 

Now  corn  and  cotton  grow. 

3. 

Sweet  meadows  mark  the  shaded  glen 
That  war  with  bullets  sowed, 

And  roses  line  the  lanes  again 
Where  Sherman's  troopers  rode. 


THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  143 

4. 

In  yonder  wood,  where  once  was  heard 

The  cannon's  deadly  hail, 
With  softer  notes  the  heart  is  stirred, 

By  some  sweet  nightingale. 

5. 

War's  wasted  fields  have  grown  to  green, 
The  streams  in  Sherman's  path 

Turn  busy  wheels,  no  more  the  scene 
Of  battle's  deadly  wrath. 

6. 

And  they  whose  swords  were  sharp  to  slay, 

Have  felt  war's  anger  cease, 
And  busy  commerce  leads  the  way 

In  paths  of  love  and  peace. 

7. 

What  matters  now  if  they  were  wrong? 

They  were  our  kith  and  kin, 
And  they  were  brave,  and  tale  and  song 

Shall  tell  what  they  have  been. 


144  THE  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 


Once  more  in  fair  Atlanta  town 
The  moonlight  shines,  as  when 

War's  bugles  sounded  up  and  down  ; 
The  sweet-briar  climbs  as  then. 

9. 

And  North  or  South,  'tis  all  the  same, 

By  pine  tree  or  by  bay, 
One  starry  banner  guards  the  fame 

Of  blue  coat  and  of  gray. 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  p.  13.  After  the  capture  of  Atlanta,  General 
Sherman  ordered  all  the  people  to  leave  the  town,  and 
for  weeks  the  city  was  absolutely  deserted  and  silent, 
though  the  victorious  army  camped  in  the  woods  around 
it  for  weeks.  The  Confederate  army,  on  losing  the 
town,  retired  farther  south.  The  unarmed  people  of 
Atlanta  found  homes  where  best  they  could,  in  the 
villages  and  on  plantations.  Many  of  them  never  saw 
Atlanta  again. 

Note  2,  p.  27.  The  March  to  the  Sea  commenced  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  November  15, 1864.  Sher 
man  had  sixty-two  thousand,  two  hundred,  and  four 
men  and  sixty -five  cannon.  It  was  three  hundred  miles 
to  Savannah.  The  army  inarched  in  two  great  wings, 
Howard  leading  the  right,  Slocum  the  left.  The  army 
corps  were  commanded  by  Generals  Blair,  Davis, 
Williams,  and  Osterhaus.  The  twelve  divisions  were 
led  by  Corse,  Geary,  Force,  Ward,  Mower,  Morgan, 
Woods,  Hazen,  Smith,  Leggett,  Baird,  and  Carlin.  All 
were  veteran  generals,  and  the  soldiers  were  hardened 
by  many  battles.  There  were  five  thousand  cavalry 
under  General  Kilpatrick. 

The  campaign  commenced,  in  fact,  not  at  Atlanta, 
but  away  back  at  Chattanooga,  and  the  hundred  days' 
battles  on  the  way  to  Atlanta  had  been  the  first  act  of 
the  great  drama.  It  was  the  romantic  campaign  of  the 
war.  Many  in  the  North  supposed  Sherman's  army  to 
be  lost.  It  had,  in  fact,  wholly  disappeared  from  all 
knowledge  of  the  government  at  Washington.  It  had 
entered  the  unknown  interior  of  Georgia,  with  its  woods 
10  145 


146  NOTES. 

and  swamps,  and  all  communication  with  it  was  cut  off. 
That  was  the  romance  of  it  all.  In  front  of  Sherman 
were  the  Georgia  militia  and  General  Wheeler's  cavalry, 
also  a  few  eastern  troops  ;  while  the  forts  of  Savannah, 
which  would  have  to  be  captured,  were  held  by  strong 
forces  of  veterans  under  General  Hardee.  Lee  was  also 
likely  at  any  moment  to  send  some  of  his  army  from 
Richmond  to  confront  Sherman.  Jefferson  Davis  in  a 
public  speech  proclaimed  that  Sherman's  army  was  now 
about  to  be  destroyed.  Many  believed  it,  North  and 
South. 

Note  3,  p.  34.  The  "  Foragers"  were  a  great  band  of 
mounted  men,  one-twentieth  of  the  army,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  scour  the  enemy's  country  and  bring  captured 
corn,  meat,  cattle,  horses,  etc.,  etc.,  into  the  camp. 
They  pressed  the  planters'  negroes,  carriages,  mules, 
cattle,  and  wagons  into  use,  loading  them  all  down  with 
supplies.  It  was  no  unusual  sight  to  see  fine  carriages 
laden  with  sweet-potatoes,  and  the  forager  driver  rigged 
out  in  the  cylinder  hat  and  swallow-tail  coat  of  some 
fleeing  planter. 

They  were  a  brave  and  unique  body  of  soldiers.  They 
often  served  in  the  place  of  cavalry,  and  guarded  the 
flanks  of  the  army.  They  were  terribly  feared  by  the 
enemy  and  were  often  mistreated  when  captured.  At 
one  point  on  the  march,  eighteen  of  them  were  shot 
after  surrendering,  and  their  bodies  were  piled  up  at  the 
roadside,  labelled,  "Death  to  Foragers."  General  Sher 
man  ordered  Kilpatrick  to  shoot  eighteen  prisoners  in 
retaliation  for  this  murder. 

See  Sherman's  "  Memoir." 

Note  4,  p.  38.  There  were  twenty-five  miles  of  wagon 
trains  with  the  army.  These,  with  the  artillery,  usually 
occupied  the  roads  ;  the  troops  marched  at  each  side,  or 
through  the  fields. 


NOTES.  147 

Note  5,  p.  42.  When  Sherman  was  about  ready  to 
start  seawards  from  Altanta,  Hood,  commanding  the 
rebel  army  at  his  front,  passed  around  his  right  flank 
and  started  on  a  grand  raid  to  the  North.  He  met  his 
Waterloo  at  the  hands  of  Thomas  in  Nashville.  His 
army  was  destroyed.  Sherman  had  followed  him  a 
hundred  miles,  but  suddenly  turned  about  and  started 
for  the  ocean.  It  was  in  this  raid  of  Hood's  that  several 
thousand  of  his  army  attacked  the  little  post  at  Alla- 
toona.  Sherman  sent  his  famous  message  to  "  Hold  on  " 
from  the  heights  of  the  Kenesaw  Mountain,  over  the 
heads  of  the  rebel  army.  Corse  did  hold  on  till  almost 
all  his  men  had  been  killed  or  wounded  and  the  foe  was 
in  retreat. 

Note  6,  p.  62.  The  most  striking  feature  of  the  whole 
march  was  the  tens  of  thousands  of  poor  slaves  deserting 
the  plantations  and  striking  for  liberty.  Their  songs  of 
joy,  their  pathetic  behavior,  made  a  lasting  impression 
on  every  beholder.  Here  was  a  whole  race  of  human 
beings  suddenly  let  out  of  bondage.  Not  since  the  return 
of  the  Children  of  Israel  had  the  world  seen  such  a  sight. 
It  was  a  milestone  in  the  history  of  all  time. 

Note  7,  p.  70.  For  an  account  of  this  awful  incident 
see  the  "  History  of  the  March  to  the  Sea,"  by  Major 
General  J.  D.  Cox,  p.  38  (Scribner's  Sons).  He  tells  how 
the  bridge  was  ordered  destroyed  by  a  certain  corps 
commander,  and  how  like  a  stampeded  drove  of  cattle 
the  poor  slaves  rushed  into  the  river  and  were  drowned. 

Note  8,  p.  74.  Incidents  like  this  occurred  near  At 
lanta,  and  more  than  once.  In  fact,  nearly  the  whole  of 
Sherman's  army  promptly  re-enlisted  on  the  field. 

Note  9,  p.  99.  This  scene  took  place  as  described.  Its 
heroes  suffered  horrible  fates.  Some  were  stripped  and 
whipped  nearly  to  death.  All  were  chained  for  months 


148  NOTES. 

in  filthy  dungeons,  and  numbers  were  put  to  death  on 
the  scaffold.  All,  except  one,  now  lie  buried  together  in 
the  National  Cemetery  at  Chattanooga.  The  Fuller  re 
ferred  to  in  the  poem  was  the  engineer  of  the  stolen 
engine.  One  member,  at  least,  of  the  Andrews  party 
escaped  and,  later,  joined  Sherman's  army  on  the  march 
to  the  sea,  and,  as  related  in  stanza  106,  is  supposed  to 
tell  the  tale  of  the  wonderful  raid. 

The  writer,  after  his  own  capture,  met  one  of  the 
Andrews  men  in  a  Southern  prison,  with  a  cannon-ball 
chained  to  his  leg. 

The  Andrews  raid  was  pronounced  by  Southerners  the 
"most  daring  deed  of  any  war."  "  Had  it  succeeded,'' 
said  the  Southern  press,  "  Beauregard's  army  would 
have  been  lost." 

Note  10,  p.  107.  This  incident  was  witnessed  by  General 
Howard.  The  boy,  in  his  zeal  to  do  his  duty  and  carry 
his  flag  to  the  very  top,  thought  nothing  of  his  wound 
except  as  it  stopped  him  short  of  the  mountain  crest 
they  were  charging.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  all  in 
cidents  narrated  in  the  story  are  absolute  facts  gathered 
from  participants  in  the  march. 

Note  11,  p.  112.  The  town  of  Louisville,  in  the  route 
of  the  march,  was  completely  burned  up  while  the  troops 
were  in  it,  on  November  28,  1864.  Its  citizens  had  been 
burning  bridges,  and  the  soldiers  retaliated,  but  not  by 
order. 

Note  12,  p.  121.  There  were  few  real  battles  on  the 
march,  but  constant  skirmishing  and  attempts  at  sur 
prise.  The  first  battle  was  fought  at  Duncan's  farm, 
near  Macon ;  the  second  was  Kilpatrick's  brave  cavalry 
fight  at  Briar  Creek,  by  Waynesborough  ;  the  third  was 
in  the  approaches  to  Savannah,  where  the  road  beds  had 
been  filled  with  torpedoes ;  and  the  last  fight  was  the 
storming  of  Fort  McAllister  by  the  sea. 


NOTES.  149 

Note  13,  p.  131.  The  fort  thus  stormed  by  Hazen's 
men  was  McAllister.  It  was  strongly  built  and  had 
abatis,  ditch,  and  palisades.  The  storming  took  just 
fifteen  minutes.  It  was  sad  to  see  one  hundred  and 
twenty-four  brave  men  slain  who  had  made  the  great 
march,  and  who,  now  in  sight  of  the  sea,  almost  heard 
the  plaudits  of  the  North.  The  dead  of  both  armies  lay 
there  in  the  moonlight  till  morning.  Sherman  himself 
entered  the  fort  late  in  the  evening,  and  says  in  his 
"  Memoirs  "  :  "  Inside  the  fort  lay  the  dead  as  they  had 
fallen,  and  they  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from  their 
living  comrades  sleeping  soundly  side  by  side  in  the  pale 
moonlight." 

These  were  the  last  who  died  on  the  March  to  the  Sea. 


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